


Between the Shadow and the Soul

by Selkie_de_Suzie



Series: Crowns and Hearts and Broken Things [2]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: AU, Angst, Broken Hearts, Butterfly Bog AU, Eventual Smut, Forbidden Love, Healing Broken Hearts, Romance, Sympathetic Adultry, Tragic Romance, What Could Have Been AU, butterfly bog, culture clash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:43:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 107,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4248054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkie_de_Suzie/pseuds/Selkie_de_Suzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Fairy still fell into the Forest, and a King still declared Love as dangerous. But she never witnessed the truth of her intended's character, and married him. Years passed, and then one fateful day, the Bog King of the Dark Forest met Queen Marianne of the Fairy Kingdom…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is the big one, folks. The one that shows us how it - Bog and Marianne's forbidden love affair - all began. I am so deeply nervous and excited to start sharing this with you, I can't even begin to tell you. 
> 
> Just as a warning, this work will eventually be bumped up to a Mature/Explicit rating. It's not gonna happen soon, but…it will happen.
> 
> And now…let us begin.

* * *

 

_**“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,** _

_**in secret, between the shadow and the soul...”** _

**– Pablo Neruda**

* * *

_**Prologue** _

A Fairy still fell into the Forest on her wedding day. She still fled. 

A King was still warned about her. He still declared Love to be dangerous.

She still met her groom, who still told her he would be her adventure.

But she did not witness the truth of his Love for her.

This is where our tale changes. 

They married. She was blissful, he was victorious.

The King continued to rule in darkness, heart still rooted in misery and bitterness.

The same seeds became planted in hers.

Time passed, bleeding into years. 

She was declared Queen, and one day looked to the Dark Forest. Remembering the Fateful Day she had fallen through, the two Kingdoms side by side but worlds apart, she began to ponder…

This is where our story begins.


	2. Chapter One

_**Chapter One** _

 

“Sire! News from the border!”

Bog repressed a growl. More grievances for him to deal with, more petty issues for which he would mete snarling justice out to. The day had been a banal one, much like the one before it.  _And the one before that…_

To think before he took the crown he had thought ruling a Kingdom would be a noble occupation. More and more it was proving to be just one hard slog.  _As he had warned you, but did you listen? Too brash, too ready to make changes, rushing headfirst into trouble_  –

“Sire? We have news, there was a -”

Enough reflection. Bog cracked his neck and glared down at where his two lackeys cowered at the foot of his throne. “What is it?” 

Stuff and Thang spoke at the same time; excitement and nervousness making them trip over their words.

“Found it in one of the brambles, we thought maybe someone had lost it –"

“The mushrooms didn’t catch a glimpse of who posted it, but we think –"

Bog held up a hand, his already thin patience stretched even more. “ _Enough.”_  He pointed a claw at Stuff. “Stuff, you first. From the beginning.”  

Stuff immediately straightened, attempting for the usual blasé air of professionalism she always had, but her cheeks were flushed and her hands twitched with some unexplainable energy. “An object was found in the brambles by the Border, your majesty. It appears to be a letter.”

“From the Fairy Kingdom, Sire!” Thang burst out, unable to contain his excitement. He shrank back a bit when Stuff shot him a quelling look. “What? We both thought it was from the Fairy Kingdom, it has the seal and everything –"

“But I was supposed to tell him –"

“It just slipped out!”

Bog’s scepter slammed down on the floor with a ringing  _CLANG_ , and Stuff and Thang immediately quieted. Bog leaned forward, his attitude both menacing and, despite his efforts to hide it, curious. “Do you have it with you?”

Stuff produced the small roll of parchment, secured with a ribbon of spider silk. Something golden shimmered at him as she scrambled up the steps and hesitantly held it out to her King. “We think it’s from the Fairy Kingdom, Sire, what with it bearing –“

“The royal seal,” Bog muttered, passing claws over the gilded stamp that he knew adorned all official documents of the Kingdom that neighbored his own. He remembered them from his childhood, shimmering up from where they were had been strewn across his father’s table. He suddenly recalled how one had been sent to him, just a single solitary time, right after he had gained the throne. A greeting and recognition of him as the new ruler of the Dark Forest, a bland little thing that had spoke of hopes of continued peace between the two realms.  _May your rule be filled with growth and order, and may our two kingdoms continue the respectful relationship we have successfully kept in ages past._  

The real message had been clear enough.  _Keep to your ways and we’ll keep to ours, and no discord will occur._

The young King had snorted at such pretty words of cowardice, refusing to acknowledge the slight burn of disappointment in him. Now Bog rolled his eyes. To think he had been so callow to even ponder the idea of forging ties with that Kingdom…

But now…here was another letter.  _Why…?_   

Thang had clambered up the steps to join Stuff, his normal hesitancy dimmed by his curiosity, his eyes wide. “What could it mean, Sire?”

Bog grunted. “We’ll find out soon enough.” Claws tore through the delicate ribbon, and the parchment unfurled like a fresh leaf. A faint sweetness floated through the air, causing all of them to cough.

Bog shot a sour look at the paper like it had personally wronged him. “Flowery fools,” he gritted out, the same oath his father had frequently favored to describe those who resided in that realm. Seizing the parchment, he shook it impatiently to rid it of anymore cloying scent, and then brought it under his scrutinizing gaze, sharp blue eyes jumping from word to word. He snorted suddenly.

Stuff tried to look disinterested while she held Thang back from leaning forward practically into their King’s lap in his attempt to read what was on the paper. “What does it say, Sire?”

“Some rot about wishing to build connections between their Kingdom and mine.” Bog growled. He lowered the parchment, and was tempted to crumple it in his fist. “Rubbish. As if we would let  _their_  world mix with  _ours_. As if the Light Fields and the Dark Forest aren’t coexisting peacefully already.” Bog glared down at the innocent sheaf of paper, his mouth twisting into an ugly grimace. “As if any Goblin would willingly associate with a  _Fairy,”_  he spat. 

Stuff and Thang’s eyes were wide as they looked at the paper the ruler of the Dark Forest had clenched so viciously in his hand. Thang gnawed anxiously on his lip. “But why send it now? Goblins haven’t bothered them in ages. Are they worried we might be planning some sort of attack?”

Bog was about to snap at Thang to cease his rambling when the meaning of the little Goblin’s pondering sunk in. “Perhaps…” Bog answered slowly. Though there would be no need for such fears. Goblins had the whole range of the Forest; thriving in the safety of the darkness it gave them. What was the wisdom of his people leaving its sanctity to attack the Fairy Kingdom?  _Unless they had something that belonged to me…_

Bog sighed. He was getting paranoid.  _Just like a fluttering, empty headed Fairy._  “Even if its unfounded, if they fear an attack from us,” he said, tapping his claws against the edge of his throne, “then at least we know we are  _feared.”_  A note of maliciousness crept into both his voice and the smirk he gave Stuff and Thang, which they returned eagerly.

Bog gave a dark chuckle, and then looked down at the signature at the bottom of the paper. He paused, squinting at it. “Strange…it’s not from their King.”

Stuff and Thang looked at the paper, curiosity renewed. “Who sent it then?”

“The Queen.” Bog looked at the parchment, slightly befuddled. His Father had always corresponded with just the King of the Fairy Kingdom, and fairies had a reputation of being fiercely patriarchal. Their Queens were not without power, but to have one reach out to another Kingdom, especially one such as his…

“Makes sense,” Stuff said surprisingly. “She was the actual heir to the throne, not the new King.”

“Aye, I remember…” Bog grumbled, though in truth, his memory of the news was hazy. The mushrooms had brought word that there had been a wild celebration in the Fields, a new King and Queen crowned, both young and vibrant and full of light. Bog’s lip curled.  _Full of foolishness,_  he thought to himself, easily repressing the memory of how  _he_ had been when the throne had become his.

He looked at the parchment once more and shot a glance at Stuff, his brow knitting. “You believe that she has more invested in securing loyalty from us than the King would?”

Stuff shrugged. “He’s royal by marriage, but she’s royal by blood. She’s got a legacy to live up to. There’s more riding on her, isn’t there?”

Bog slowly nodded at that wisdom before giving a curse of frustration. “But why reach out  _now_?” He exclaimed, caught between irritation and perplexity. “They’ve had the throne for, what, four years now?”

“Three years,” piped up Thang. “At least, she  _started_  her third one this Spring. But she’s still young, isn’t she? Took the throne less than a year after she married. Maybe she’s still young enough to hope for –"

“What,  _unity_?” Bog snorted. “Connection between the kingdoms?” He lifted the parchment up once more, and gave his voice a high, mocking quality as he read from it.  _“Despite the ages of separation between our Kingdoms, its my sincerest hope that we can one day accomplish what others have thought impossible_  –"

Growling, Bog rolled his eyes and let the letter drop to his side. “Can you believe such rubbish?”

Stuff readily nodded, also rolling her eyes, but to his surprise, Thang looked thoughtful. “It’s sort of funny though…”

Bog quirked a brow at him, annoyed. “What is?”

Thang shrugged. “You used to say the same thing when you were young. Remember? You were always telling The Gravener King we could be the first goblins to reach out and…and…”

Thang’s voice trailed away pathetically as the full force of the Bog King’s glare fixed on him, and even Stuff had to wince at the look on his face.

 _“I,”_  Bog growled low in his throat, “ _said and did many a foolish thing when I was young._ ”

Both of the goblins nodded frantically, and then stopped, not sure if it was safe for them to agree with such a statement.

Bog looked down at the parchment, and then nodded curtly to the two of them. “Away with you. I shan’t be bothered as I think of how to word my refusal to this asinine idea.”

Stuff and Thang bowed hastily and then ran out of the Throne Room as quickly as they could. Bog let out a sour snort and then folded the letter, not caring how he creased the delicate parchment. It didn’t warrant any care, didn’t warrant anything other than a refusal. Who was this Queen to extend such an invitation, to write with such sickening earnestness? Gods, but her youth showed.  _Never had any trouble or pain cross her path, most like._ His refusal would be a harsh and much needed lesson to her - honestly, she should be grateful. King or Queen, one required a certain toughness to rule.

Growling in irritation, Bog tossed the parchment on the throne and took to the air. He had his Forest to survey, and a flight would help clear his mind before he got back to writing his reply.

No, not his reply. His refusal.  _It can only be a refusal, after all._

* * *

When he got back however, the letter had been appropriated by someone else. As had his throne.

Bog groaned in exasperation. “Mother, we’ve talked about this. The throne is for only the King –"

Griselda waved an unconcerned hand at him, her eyes still on the paper. “Your father let me sit on the throne all the time, sweetie. And what, ya want your dear old mother's knees to get creakier? Now hush, I wanna finish reading this –"

Bog repressed a growl. “That’s for the King’s eyes only –"

Griselda rolled her own eyes. “Oh, goodness, you’re so  _right._  Oh dear, I hope my eyes don’t start festering from seeing these oh-so-private words as I sit on your oh-so-special chair.  _Pshaw!_  Ya need to relax a bit, honey.” She hopped off of the throne and waved the letter at him. “You’re gonna respond to this, right?”

Bog nodded wearily. “Aye, I’ll send my refusal to the Border as soon as–"

 _“Your refusal?!”_  Griselda looked deeply shocked. “Ya mean you're not even gonna consider it?”

Bog shrugged carelessly. “What’s to consider? The Kingdoms are too different to ever properly forge ties, it would be doomed from the start –"

Griselda rolled her eyes at him. “In my humble opinion, sayin’ something is doomed from the start before you even try doesn’t sound like the way a King would talk.”

Bog sneered. “Oh really? Then explain why Father never tried to–“

“I loved your father bunches, dear,” Griselda said dryly, “but he could be thicker than a stump when it came to fostering relations with other kingdoms. And I thought you were so determined to be your own kind of King – “

Bog trudged up the steps and threw himself on the throne, more tired than annoyed at this point. “The relations have been fine. We keep to our world, they keep to theirs –"

“But they haven’t!” Griselda waved the letter at him. “They don’t wanna anymore, this proves it!” She wagged a finger at him. “And don’t you tell me the relations are fine. Non-existent ain’t the same thing as fine!”

Bog tried to give her a glare, but she simply leveled a hard stare right back at him. He looked away, sighing. “We’ve been…isolated, aye, but –"

“But nothin’. They took the first step, honey, they wanna do this.” She peered up into his face and sighed. “Why aren’t you more excited about this, Boggy? I remember when you were first starting out, you were on fire to start working with other kingdoms –"

Bog gave a soft grumble of a growl. “I was incredibly naive –"

“Maybe,” Griselda shrugged, “but at least you were hopeful.” She looked at him and her shoulders sank a bit, her wide mouth getting a wistful twist to it. “I miss that side of you, honey –"

Bog’s wings twitched and he avoided his mother’s gaze, feeling an uncomfortable squirm of guilt go through him.  _Which she bloody well knew and was completely exploiting._  “Mother… it’s…” he exhaled hard, his breath gusting out of him. “It’s too much of a risk. I can’t put the Dark Forest in danger of upheaval for the sheer chance that we might finally have connections with them – “ He stopped himself and scowled. “Why we would  _need_  connections with such flighty fools, I have no bloody idea –"

Griselda gave a little  _tut_  of distaste. “That’s your father talking, not you. Ya need to remember your old way of thinking! What changed that?”

Bog  _did_ give her a glare at that, glowering as his claws scratching hard across the arm of his throne.  _She knew damn well what changed…_

Griselda seemed to realize that she had crossed a line and sighed, shaking her head before crossing her skinny arms and leveling a frank look at him. “Yeah, the Forest is peaceful. Yeah, nothing has threatened it. But is it really  _thriving_ , sweet-pea?”

Bog didn’t answer straight away, thinking back on his earlier flight through his land. Nothing was amiss, nothing truly awful, but…that was it.  _Nothing_ was happening. No chaos, but also…no growth. No progress. Stuck where they were like they were mired in mud…

_Is that what you want your legacy to be? Or do you want to achieve the impossible?_

Bog’s claws continued to scratch at his throne, though in contemplation now rather than anger, the marks on the arms of it a testament to his usual habits when he was deep in thought. “If I do this…” he said slowly, each word seeming to weigh on his tongue, and he looked at Griselda, watching her watch him, “…there’s the chance of chaos.”

Griselda gave a blasé shrug. “There always is. But the very worst that could happen is war.”

Bog glared at her.

“But that’s the very worst,” she continued, and made her way closer to the throne. “It’s just a possibility, hon. Yeah, sure, this will probably be messy and complicated, but that doesn’t mean it won’t work. There ain’t any shortcuts to the important stuff.” She put her hands on her hips and nodded knowingly at him. “An’ you and I both know that this  _is_  important.”

Bog looked into her warm eyes and felt himself crumble a bit.  _Damnation, how did she always do this to him…?_

Looking away from her son’s pondering expression, Griselda perused the letter once more. “I mean, yeah, funny that it wasn’t the King writing to you, but this Queen sounds like a real go-getter.” She grinned. “My kind of girl.”

Bog groaned. “She sounds naive –“

Griselda swatted at him with the letter. “She sounds like you did, ya big grump.” She peered down at the page. “Nice little post-script too –"

Bog sat up, surprised. “Post-script?” He must have missed that the first time he had read the letter, his irritation blinding him. He snatched the letter back - Griselda held up her hands, disgruntled - and quickly scanned the message that was indeed lurking at the bottom of the page, beneath the cordial, bland blather before it.

_“ – I know that the risk to both of our kingdoms is a very real one, so please know that this is not just some empty gesture. I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t mean it. Things need to change in my Kingdom, and I suspect the same is true for yours. That’s not a judgment, but a simple truth. Please…for the sake of both our realms, consider this.”_

It was clumsy and forthright, not at all polished or formal, a childish plea instead of a royal request.

It also fairly breathed with sincerity, and Bog felt something in him give a faint tug at the earnest words, staring up at him in a tidy scrawl.  _For the sake of both our realms…_

Griselda looked from the post-script to him and gave his shoulder a pat. “Reply to her. Write back and at the very least say you’ll consider it. Maybe later you can meet face to face, see how they react.”

Bog almost gave a snort. He had a fairly good idea of how fairies would react to his face.  _In fact…_

A small smile crept across his face, his eyes getting a particular glint to them. “Aye…” he murmured, almost to himself, “Aye…I’ll reply to her…”

Griselda beamed at him. “Oh honey, that’s great! You’re making the right choice!” She ruffled her hand at his scalp, which he quickly leaned away from, and then trudged down the stairs, whistling cheerfully as she left the throne room.

Bog watched her go, and his hint of a smile became a full-fledged smirk. Oh, he would indeed reply to them.  _But it wouldn’t be in writing._

He took to the air and flew out of the Throne Room – he would need to meet with Stuff and Thang. They already knew about the letter and the proposal it contained, they could be privy to his plan –

He glanced down at the letter, still clutched in his hand and continuing to give off that faint flowery smell, and his grin was sharp.  _Very well, Queen Marianne_ , he thought, feeling a roll of faintly vicious anticipation go through him,  _let’s see how sincere your offer remains when you take a look this face._


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This contains a brief reference to an earlier drabble of mine for this AU (the drabble that started it all). It can be read here (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3683097/chapters/8146779 ), but you don’t have to read it to understand/enjoy this chapter, however!

* * *

_**Chapter Two** _

 

This was a mistake.

Bog cracked his neck and tried to stop gritting his teeth. No, it wasn’t. It was…tactical. He was merely doing this as a test. He had every right to take this precaution.

There was nothing to be nervous about. He was the Bog King of the Dark Forest, feared in name and deed, and he was not nervous.

The Fields seemed to stretch before him, drenched in sunshine, the boulder where the Fairy Palace resided looming and large. Nowhere near the dark majesty of his own Castle, but Stuff and Thang were muttering anxiously behind him as they eyed it. They had been silent while waiting for their King to make the first move, but had lapsed into hushed conversation the longer he stalled.

Bog growled softly. Kings didn’t stall. He was just…reviewing the intricacies of his plan of attack.

Not that it was an  _actual_  plan to attack. But still, going to the Fairy Kingdom with no warning could be misconstrued as an ambush, never mind there was only three to his retinue. Though he could probably take on any Fairy fool enough to attack–

Bog gripped his scepter.  _Enough of that._  There was no need to build himself up for a fight that hadn’t even happened yet. This approach…it was his best way to gauge the truth behind the offer the letter proposed. He glanced down at it, wrapped around his scepter for safekeeping. They had no way of knowing he was coming, no way to hide their reactions, no time to prepare some kind of fawning, false show of agreeableness and guile. They would be at  _his_  mercy, Bog thought fiercely. He would not be played a fool.

It was an unmistakable challenge, one that could end disastrously.

But he  _had_  to know if the offer was sincere.

Which is why he was here, at the edge of his Forest beneath the shade of the towering trees there, grinding the stumps of the primrose stalks beneath his feet as he paced, while his two second-in-commends on this  _wretched_ endeavor would  _not stop bloody muttering_  –

“Enough!” Bog snapped, and he wasn’t all too sure if the command was meant for Stuff and Thang or himself. But the two goblins immediately silenced themselves and looked at him with large eyes, waiting for him to continue. Repressing a sigh, Bog waved his scepter over to where the two dragonflies they had brought with them were tied. “Get ready to ride, we leave now.”

With cries of “Roger, BK!” and “Yes, Sire!” they scrambled over themselves and quickly mounted the steeds, and took to the air, circling in buzzing, wheeling patterns as they waited for him to lead the way.

Bog allowed himself one last glance at his Forest, the shadows dim and dark and comforting, and felt a traitorous twisting of nerves in his gut.  _Remember why you’re doing this._

The line of his mouth hardening, Bog turned his back on his realm and took to the air, facing the land he had never dared to venture, even in his impetuous youth. Even when he had made his deal with Plum, all those years ago…

Scowling, Bog swung his scepter to point the way, and took off, Stuff and Thang close behind him.

_You’ve come this far. And a King doesn’t turn back._

* * *

Bog’s feet had scarcely touched the ground when guards rushed at him, blades drawn. “Stay where you are, you foul creature!”

Stuff and Thang immediately cowered, but Bog merely raised a brow at the three knights, unsurprised and unimpressed. “Baring arms on a King? And one who hasn’t even presented his own weapon yet. Aren’t you the brave ones…” He smiled, baring his sharp teeth. “Foolish, but brave.”

The guards didn’t stand down, and one of them scowled at the dark beast before them, looking so frankly  _wrong_ in the bright splendor of the Great Hall. “The presence of a Goblin alone is a threat. Be gone before we do more than just bare our –“

“Wait,  _King?”_  One of the trio dropped his sword a bit, looking suspicious.

Bog nearly snarled, exasperated. Hells, if  _these_ were the type of fairies he would have to deal with if the offer was sincere...“Aye,  _King._  The Bog King of the Dark Forest, whom you’ve just threatened.”

Stuff and Thang came closer, emboldened by their monarch’s cool dismissive manner, and glared ferociously at the guards who dwarfed them. No matter, Bog was tall enough for both of them –

One of the guards squinted suspiciously. “What would the King of the Dark Forest be doing at the Fairy Palace?”

“That’s between me and your rulers. Let them know that I’m here.”

The trio snickered, and one of them gave him a bold smirk. “We answer to one King alone, Goblin. And I sincerely doubt that King Roland would –“

Bog had just about had enough. “ _And I_ ,” he growled, drawing himself up to his full height, and the guards mocking grins quickly dropped from their faces as they stared up with wide eyes at the fearsome figure towering above them, “sincerely doubt that either your King or your Queen would be happy to know you attempted to dismiss a fellow ruler, be he Goblin or not.”

He glared at them, feeling a vicious satisfaction as their faces paled, and then tore the letter away from where it was wrapped around his scepter. He tossed it to them, and one of the guards hastily grabbed it. “That was sent to me. Look at the seal if you have any more doubts.”

The guard brought it close to his face, eyes widening further as he took in the royal sigil stamped across the parchment. “It’s signed by the Queen –"

“Your precious Queen Marianne, aye,” Bog snapped, thoroughly fed up now. “Now let her know that I’m here to answer her.”

The trio looked at one another, thrown. “Why would she send a letter to them?” One whispered anxiously, turning slightly away from Bog.

“I thought Roland had said they weren’t going to try to contact the Forest –"

“Do you think she went behind his back -?”

 _“I’m waiting,”_  Bog gritted out, ignoring their hushed words. Gods, he hadn’t even been here for five minutes and this was a bloody mess.

The three snapped to attention and resumed glaring at him. “We will report to the King and Queen that a representative from the Dark Forest is here,” one of them said, the trace of a sneer still on his face.

Bog felt one tug at his own mouth. So they weren’t going to give him the courtesy of his title, were they?  _What did you expect of fairies?_  “I can wait,” he answered coolly, and it was both a promise and a threat.

One of them nodded at the other two, and went to fly down the hall before he paused and fixed Bog with another fierce glare. “Be warned, Goblin – if you attempt to do any harm while here, we  _are_  prepared to fight.”  A smug grin stole across his face. “And I doubt your companions would be of much help to you.”

The other two guards chuckled at that, and Stuff and Thang looked up at their King, their expressions faintly nervous.

Bog felt a true flare of protective anger go through him at that. Only  _he_ could bully his lackeys. He managed to reign in his temper. “Indeed, it isn’t fair to be so outmatched,” he agreed calmly, and the fairies grinned at each other before he continued. “If it comes to that, I’ll be certain to make your defeats as swift as possible.”  _Utterly humiliating and painful, aye, but swift._

The guards’ eyes bugged out at that. “How dare –“

 _“Go to your rulers now,”_  Bog snarled fiercely, and the startled jumps the three gave at that, which they quickly tried to hide, sent a roll of keen vindication through him.

The first guard quickly flew off down the hall, leaving the other two to wait in front Bog, looking torn between distaste and nervousness.

Bog let out an irritated sigh.  _Connections are off to a fine start indeed._

* * *

What had begun as irritated impatience had transformed into an angry disbelief that was making Bog’s head ache to a fierce degree. He glowered at the two guards as he continued to pace, Stuff and Thang having already made themselves comfy on the floor. “How much longer?” he growled.

“As long as it takes,” one replied calmly enough, though his blue eyes were still somewhat wary as they watched the infamous Bog King descended more and more into an absolutely foul mood. “King Roland will send for you when he’s –"

“It was Queen Marianne’s signature on the letter,” Bog said, his tone sharp. “If the King is so very busy, let  _her_  be the one to meet with me.” If she even  _knew_  he was here. He wouldn’t have put it past those guards to simply not tell either of their rulers -

“The Queen is with the King right now,” the other guard snapped. “If you are so very unwilling to wait –"

“I cannot waste a whole day here on their whim!” Bog snapped back. This was more than just ridiculous - it was insulting. He would have  _never_  let a fellow ruler wait for so long, not when he knew the need to watch over ones kingdom, ensure its safety.  “I have other things to attend to back at my Kingdom –"

The fairies chuckled. “What, consuming the hearts of the young?” The blue-eyed guard asked sarcastically.

“Choosing between pond scum or mud for soap?” snickered the other.

Something inside Bog snapped.  _Right. You show a King disrespect, you pay the consequences._

He banged his scepter on the ground with a fierce  _CLANG_ , making fairies and goblins alike jump. He gestured sharply to Stuff and Thang. “Stuff, Thang, take care of them.”

Stuff and Thang immediately went for the guards’ knees, tackling them to the floor with what they obviously thought were fearsome war cries. Rolling his eyes at his eyes at the guards’ shrieks of pain and surprise, Bog flew over them and down the hall where the first guard had gone. Stuff and Thang wouldn’t give him much time, but it wouldn’t matter as long he managed to make  _some_  sort of contact –

And as luck would have it, he heard the murmur of voices at the end of the hall, behind a great pair of doors, carved intricately with flowers and depictions of fairies.  _The throne room._

Giving an extra burst of speed, Bog flew down the hall and landed by the doors, one ear listening intently as he looked over his shoulder for the two guards. 

The voices grew more distinct, two of them, a male and a female –

“Roland, we’ve talked about this, we need to rule as a team,” the female said, her voice a warm alto, her tone fraught with urgency.

There was a warm, indulgent chuckle, and then a drawling reply. “Marianne, my love, my Queen, my little buttercup, a King needs to lead by example…” The voice had an accent to it that Bog couldn’t place, but it already grated at his nerves for some inexplicable reason. It continued on, soothing. “Besides, this fellow is from the Dark Forest –"

Bog’s heart leapt at that – they  _had_  known he was here!

But then the voice continued –

“- and anyone from there is a dirty rotten Goblin, and the King there is –"

Before Bog knew what he was doing, he was wrenching open the doors. Hot anger licked through him, but his voice was cold when he spoke. “The King,” he stated, his voice rough and loud enough to make the two fairies at the other edge of the room both jumped at his sudden appearance, “is wondering why the King and Queen of the Fairies have kept him waiting for so long.”

The echo of his words made the ensuing silence in the hall seem to press down on all of them. Bog cracked his neck and glared at the two figures before him, taking each of them in with sharp blue eyes.

He had been right - both were young, far younger than him at least. Each possessed the same spindly fingers, delicate hide, blunt teeth, large eyes, silky thatches of hair and large, colorful wings that all fairies had. Both wore the golden crowns of the Fairy Kingdom on their heads, and both were slim and strong, full of youth and vitality. But that was where the similarities ended.

The King had moth wings and wore the green armor common to those of noble houses in this realm; the shine of it was almost garish. It matched the bright green of his eyes, which stared at Bog in horrified fascination. His hair was as golden as his crown, framing his strong and chiseled face in soft burnished glory. But there was no disguising the weakness and distaste behind those bright eyes, and Bog felt easy disdain for him already beginning to form.

The Queen, meanwhile, was dark as her husband was fair. Her butterfly wings were an almost iridescent purple, marked with black – a surprisingly dark hue for a Fairy to have – and they seemed to glow against the soft, pale lavender rose petals of her gown. Her hair shone a deep brunette hue, and her large eyes were a lustrous hazel. They also stared at Bog, moving over him, but there was no disgust in her gaze, only an apprehension that verged on fear.

Bog’s mouth twisted into a smirk.  _Good_.

Feeling that he had made a sufficiently terrifying first impression, Bog gave them a bow that managed to be both suitably respectful and deeply ironic. “The Bog King of the Dark Forest.”

The King continued to gape at him, but the Queen seemed to recover from her shock enough to respond with the proper decorum. She gave him a slight curtsey, inclining her head deeply. “Queen Marianne of the Light Fields.” She rose, and her large eyes ran over him again in disbelief. When she spoke, it was almost to herself, wondering and soft. “ _You actually came_ –"

The Fairy King seemed to have finally collected his wits at that point. “King Roland, ruler of the Light Fields and monarch of the entire Fairy Kingdom,” he said loudly, cutting off his Queen. He placed his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes at Bog. “And what, may I ask, are you doing  _here,_  your majesty?”

Bog glared at him, bristling at the arrogance in his tone. “It’s not for pleasure, I assure you,” he returned, his own tone dry. “I’m here to speak to you about your proposal.”

King Roland’s face twisted in befuddlement. “Proposal? What proposal?”

Bog would have dearly liked to roll his eyes, but knew he had to attempt to salvage at least some of this visit. “ _This_  one.” He held up the letter and brandished it at the young couple. “The one that you sent me. The one that spoke of forging connections with the Dark Forest.”

The King spluttered indignantly. “I sent no such thing!”

“Fine,” Bog snapped, “then your Queen did. It still bears your seal, does it not?”

Still mouthing incredulously at Bog, the King turned to his Queen. “Buttercup,  _what_  is he talking about -?”

A deep flush was beginning to spread on the fair cheeks of the Queen’s face, her eyes starting to get a rather guilty glint to them. Bog was torn between watching her suspiciously and preoccupation with what the Fairy King had called her.  _Buttercup? Gods, but the nicknames fairies come up with are odious_ –

He forced himself to focus and crossed his arms, fixing the Queen with a hard stare. “Aye, she sent it,” he stated coolly. “It was brought to me from the Border of my Kingdom. I was asked to consider an attempt to build and forge new connections with your realm. I was then requested to reply back.” He gestured to himself in a mockery of presentation. “So here I am, ready to reply.”

The Queen tucked a piece of hair behind the swooping curve of one of her ears, flustered, her eyes darting away from him. “I thought – you could have written back, you didn’t have to –"

“I prefer to handle matters like these face to face,” Bog said coldly. “It’s not so easy to speak lies as it is to write them,  _your highness_.”

Her eyes snapped back up to him, shock and offense in them. “ _Lies -?!_  What do you mean, I would never –!"

“It’s all well for you to write pretty words about your  _sincerest hope that we can one day accomplish what others have thought impossible,”_ Bog said, and the Queen flushed hot to hear her words thrown back at her so mockingly, “but I need more than just ink on paper. I need to see you’re in earnest with this offer.  _Then_  I’ll decide whether to join you in this.” Bog heard a slight scuffle come from the hall and remembered the guards and their earlier rudeness. He crossed his arms once more and glowered at her. “I must say, it’s looking highly unlikely.”

“Good!”

Both Bog and the Queen’s attention snapped to the Fairy King. “What?” Bog asked, confusion replacing annoyance temporarily.  

“I said good! It’s good that it’s looking unlikely!” King Roland also crossed his arms, though the gesture had more of an air of petulance than menace. “I had no idea my Queen had done such a thing, and I wouldn’t have agreed to it had I had known!” He shot a look at his Queen. “We talked about this, Marianne! We decided –"

“ _You_  decided, not me!” She shot back, a bit of fire to her voice. That heat left her when she turned back to Bog, and there was an air of desperation about her, her large eyes pleading. “Please, your majesty, I know you have no reason to believe us, but I meant what I said –"

“Of course I won’t believe you,” snarled Bog, now truly angry. “You gave me false information – you said that your kingdom wanted to build connections, and now I find out that your own King had no idea you sent such a letter and has no interest in the idea to begin with!”

“I –" The Queen wrung her hands, looking distraught and so very young, “I had planned on showing him  _your_  letter, and then – maybe – if you had  _written_  a reply, but I didn’t expect -!”

Bog gave a bitter laugh. “One of the most dearly learned lessons for a ruler is that nothing goes as expected, your highness. Especially in regards to impulsive actions.”  _To hells with this farce._  He gave a sharp, mocking bow. “If you will excuse me, your majesties, I have to get back to my Kingdom.”

The Queen looked truly panicked at that. “No, please, just let me explain -!”

King Roland looked merely relieved. “Ah, well, in that case – safe journeys, and uh, continued peace between our realms –"

Bog did roll his eyes at that, turning sharply on his heel, eager to get away.  _Gods, he had been such a fool._ He wrenched open the door only to have the guards tumble in, Stuff and Thang still desperately clinging to their knees.

Bog snapped an impatient claw at them. “Release them, we’re leaving.” He stepped over the pile of fairies and stalked down the corridor, his wings twitching too much in irritation for him to fly.

Stuff and Thang desperately kept up with him as best they could, and one look at his face seemed to convince them that talking would be nigh suicidal at this point. They merely nodded to one another and put on another burst of speed, racing ahead of him to get to their dragonflies.

“Head back to the Kingdom, I’ll return to the Castle shortly,” Bog called after them irritably. He couldn’t return in such a mood, his mother would endlessly pepper him with questions, nag at him as she always did –

Bog snarled, roughly passing a hand over his face as they buzzed off, leaving him alone. Gods, he had been such a  _fool!_

As much as he hated to admit it, disappointment was burning him just as much as anger was. To think that he had thought - well, he had gotten what he had came for, hadn’t he? A true reaction and sincerity as false as only a Fairy could make it.  _This is what you get for hoping_  -

“Your majesty! Please wait!”

Thrown from his increasingly bitter self-berating thoughts, Bog turned, confused. He immediately stiffened when he saw the Queen flying toward him, her expression frantic.

He turned and continued to the window he had entered in from, his tone gruff and dismissive. “There’s no need to see me off, your highness, I promise I won’t lay waste to your Kingdom –"

 _“Please,”_  she begged, following him, her eyes wide and desperate, “please hear me out, I know – I  _know_ sending you that letter was impulsive, I know I should have had Roland’s support before sending it, but -!"

Bog snarled and spun around, his wings flaring.  _“You played me!”_

He panted a bit, thrown by how fierce his reaction had been. He had been so foolish to hope that there was a chance…

Exhaling hard, Bog straightened before noticing that the Queen was positively trembling, her face pale. She had leapt back at his display of ferocity, and now wrapped her arms around her, obviously in a desperate attempt to quell her reaction. Her eyes blinked rapidly as she stared at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. Gods, now he had frightened her.  _Lovely._

He gave another sigh, an uncomfortable sensation of shame creeping under his scales. It was one thing to give an annoyingly naive Fairy Queen a much needed shock, but to outright terrify her in a display that would send even his hardened subjects cowering…

Bog glanced at her one more time before looking away. “Apologies,” he muttered finally.

She raised her head at that, startled, and he felt the prickle of shame increase as he saw her large golden-brown eyes had a sheen to them that hadn’t been there before.  

She ran a hand through her hair and cleared her throat, obviously trying to collect herself. “It’s…it’s fine,” she replied, though her voice caught a bit. “I…I just…” She looked up at him once more and her shoulders drooped. “Just…please, before you go, can’t you listen to me?”

Bog sighed, tired instead of annoyed now, and made his way to the window. “There’s no point, and I need to get back to my Kingdom –"

“You care for it, don’t you?”

“…What?”

“I said,” the Queen said, approaching him slowly, “you care for it, don’t you? Your Kingdom?”

Bog turned back to her, and the sheer openness in her expression startled him into speaking the truth. “Aye.”

“I love mine.” She said bluntly. “With all my heart. And right now…”

She sighed, and looked away, her wings rustling. When she looked back at him, Bog was struck once again by her youth but also by how… _old_  she seemed, her eyes weary, her jaw clenched, her brow furrowed.  _The pressures of the throne_ …gods, but did he understand that. When she spoke, Bog found himself more willing to hear her than he had been this entire ill-conceived venture, leaning in to catch each soft word.

“Yes, Roland never wanted to work on diplomacy. Yes, I  _should_  have had him be part of this, should have explained everything to him. And yes, it  _was_ impulsive of me to send you that letter.” She paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, her hands clenching at her sides. “It was impulsive, but…” she looked up at him, almost fiercely, “…it was also sincere.”

Bog could only stare at her, at how her eyes were practically burning with emotion. He wasn’t sure what to say…

The Queen blinked and looked away from him, rubbing her hands along her arms as though trying to keep away a chill. “I never meant to play you,” she muttered, her shoulders hunching.

Bog felt he ought to growl at her that  _too bad, she had_ , but he suddenly felt so tired, so very tired of it all. He sighed, and then fixed her with a level stare, dropping his glower. “Then what  _did_  you mean with the letter?”

She looked up that, her eyes getting wide again as they took in his expression. She ran her fingers through her hair once more, taking a deep breath, obviously trying to collect her thoughts, before she began to speak.

“I sent the letter because my Kingdom – our –  _this_  Kingdom is suffering. We’ve been on our own for too long.” She paused, looking out the window they were near, her eyes taking in the tall flowers, the bright light. “I know that the idea was that Light and Dark had to be kept separate, that the two realms were too different. But…” she sighed, “…we’re stagnating. There’s been no change, nothing new is happening, and no matter what anyone else thinks,” she paused, and Bog knew that she was thinking of her King, “we  _are_  suffering for it. And I want to end that. We don’t need a separation of Dark and Light, we need a balance. And…” she paused once more before looking at him again, and Bog felt a strange feeling come over him at the desperate sincerity in those large, almost amber eyes. Her voice was hushed and full of feeling when she continued. “…I  _know_  that you wouldn’t have come here today if you weren’t worried as well.”

Now it was Bog’s turn to look away, silently going over her words. It appeared that he would have to reevaluate his opinion about her sincerity. It fairly scorched him; it was so raw, so real…

“Is…” He looked at her sharply, and she paused, biting at her lip a bit before continuing, her voice hesitant, “Is there a chance you can consider it?”

Bog scratched a claw at the back of his neck and sighed gustily.  _Oh…damn it to hells_. He would most likely live to regret this. “How do you propose to gain your King’s support?” he finally muttered.

Her eyes lit up. “I can find a way, think of an angle that would intrigue him – it shouldn’t be too hard, once he knows that you and I are both behind it –"

“If I come back here,” Bog cut in, pointing a claw at her, “I no longer wait with the guards. I will not ask for your trust, but I will have respect.” He narrowed his eyes at her, his voice brooking no argument. “I am a King. They  _will_ remember that next time.”

The Queen nodded, flushing a bit. “Of course. They’re…quite like Roland. I’ll explain the situation to them, that you’re to be treated with all due decorum.”

Bog nodded. It would have to do for now.  _Hells, they were actually doing this_. He cleared his throat and rolled his shoulder, suddenly feeling slightly nervous. “What…what were your plans on how to proceed?”  

She shrugged her shoulders, the nervous gesture so at odds with her royal appearance he was almost tempted to grin. “I, uh…I’d like it if you could attend some of our Council meetings. So you can understand some of the issues happening over here. And perhaps…find some common ground? Tell us about your realm?”

Bog nodded, not wanting to reflect on how most of that Council would be fairies far older than the Queen, and that they would definitely carry prejudices about his people.  _Worry later_. He nodded once more. “Right.”

She smoothed her hands down her dress. “I can, ah, send you dates about when they occur?”

“Excellent.”

They looked at each other, and Bog felt a roll of disbelief go through him.  _It was happening, it was actually happening._

The question left him before he could even think about it. “Do you truly want to do this?”

He expected her stammer some more, maybe even show some of that same spark of annoyance she had given her King. But as she looked at him, he only saw sincerity, pure and warm, in her dark eyes. “I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t mean it,” she said softly. “There needs to be change in both our realms.”

“Not a judgment, but a simple truth,” Bog muttered before he could stop himself.

She cocked her head at him, recognizing the words. “Yeah…” she murmured, the faint hint of a smile coming to her lips.

Bog eyed the hopeful little twist it gave her mouth, and then looked away, sighing as he moved to the window. “I need to get back –"

“Oh! Of course!” She moved out of his way, wings fluttering and fumbling with her words. “Of course, I didn’t mean to – um, yes. Good. I’ll…send you the dates as soon as I can.” She took a breath and, almost shyly, held out a hand to him. “I…I hope that we can help each other.”

Bog stared down at it, long fingered and pale and dwarfed by his own fierce, rough claws. No one had – not in the longest time –

The Queen, seeing his shock, started to slowly let her hand sink back to her side, biting her lip once more, when Bog surprised the both of them by grasping it, careful not to scratch her skin. Awkwardly giving it a quick shake, he dropped it just as swiftly, not sure if it would be sufficient. Gods, it had been so long –

He cleared his throat, stumbling a bit over his own words. “Yes, ah, well…I hope so too.”

The Queen stared at his hand, her brow scrunched, before giving a slight laugh. “Yes, well…” she looked back up at him, an there was a faint crinkle to her eyes now. “I think we’re off to a start.” 

Bog almost snorted. “Rather a rough one, aye?”

She shrugged once more, this one far less nervous. “A start is still a start.”

Bog couldn’t deny the truth of that. “Fair enough.”  _Now we simply have to see how it ends. Hopefully with neither of our kingdoms in fiery ruins._  

He easily stepped up on the ledge and took to the air, pausing to turn back as he thought of something. “You can continue to put the letters by the brambles, if you’d like.”

She nodded, leaning on the window ledge. “Right. I’ll send word to the Council about you joining us for our next meeting.”

Bog squelched the jolt of dizziness he felt at that. “Right.”

She paused, before giving him a hesitant nod. “Well…farewell, Bog King. And…thank you.”

Bog paused, once again thrown. Gods, it felt odd to hear her say that, both the thank you and the…

Though it shouldn’t, she was merely giving him due respect to his title. He should do the same…

He inclined his head to her, a bit awkward. “You’re…you’re welcome, Queen Marianne.”

He took off, noting how the sun had changed while he had been so preoccupied, but not before he saw the slight smile that crossed her face.

Bog sighed. Gods, he hoped he wouldn’t regret this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drew a picture for what I envisioned Marianne's gown to look like in this chapter, which can be found here if you're curious - http://suzie-guru.tumblr.com/post/123035422643/minor-spoiler-for-chapter-2-of-my-fanfic-between


	4. Chapter Three

_**Chapter Three** _

 

“Tell me everything when you get back, ya hear? I wanna hear about all the little details, food, decorations, what they were wearin’ – oh, it’s just so  _exciting -!”_

Bog groaned. “Mother, it won’t be a bloody social visit, it’s merely a meeting with –"

“With a council,” Griselda interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know, you’ve only been repeating that a hundred times.” But she quickly went back to grinning, refusing to let her enthusiasm be dampened in the slightest. “But not just any council, but the  _Fairy Council!_  After all this time, it’s finally happening!” She sighed happily, gazing up at him. “I’m  _so_  proud of you, honey, you’re doing what no King here even dared to dream of –“

“Probably because they had a damn bit more sense,” Bog muttered beneath his breath, but he couldn’t help the faint warmth that bloomed under his mother’s praise. There was no way to tell how this would end, if it would even work at all, but she was right. He  _was_  establishing ties that no Goblin had ever thought was possible, ones that would make his Kingdom stronger for it –

- _or it will bloody collapse like a felled tree and it will be your entire fault_  –

Bog nearly growled, but settled on giving another sweeping glance at the group of goblins whom he had selected to travel with him, milling about in the skull entrance of his Castle. As soon as the dates to the meetings had been sent to him, he had immediately sent back a reply, requesting that he would be allowed to bring other goblins with him. It wasn’t a vast number, just Stuff, Thang, Bloodwart, Muggon and Fleasley, but Bog wanted to have it be known that he would not be the only Goblin the fairies would be dealing with if this diplomacy were to work. Each goblin hailed from a different group of his Forest, their appearances vastly different. It was best, Bog had reasoned to himself, to have all of them recognized, just as he would undoubtedly be asked to recognize all the groups under the Fairy King and Queen’s rule – the elves and the pixies and other creatures who craved the sun instead shadows.

And if Bog now had the assurance of not just Stuff and Thang being able to provide assistance if things took a turn for the worse…

Bog sighed and grabbed his scepter. He had to stop thinking about this endeavor as a battle about to begin – it was the wrong frame of mind, it would only serve to make him paranoid and unfocused. He absolutely could not compromise his attention today, not today –

He rolled his shoulders back and cracked his neck, before swinging his scepter against one of the sharp teeth, and the resulting  _CRACK_ made everyone snap to attention, facing their King as he fixed them all with a fierce, commanding glare.

“Prepare to leave. Remember, wait for my signal on all matters,” Bog growled. He wasn’t about to have a war break out because of some ridiculous cultural misunderstanding.

They all nodded seriously, before Fleasley raised a somewhat timid claw. “What if we become separated from you, Sire?” He lisped, his mole-like features having a faintly anxious cast to them.

“Stay together and wait for my return. Don’t wander off, even if you’re tempted to investigate. We don’t need rumors starting about how you’ve been brought along to raid the Palace.”

Muggon scratched at one of his fronds, his froggy face wary. “Are we expected to engage the fairies in conversation, your majesty?”

Bog let out a bark of laughter. “Absolutely not. Do not speak to them unless you have to. If you must, keep it to the point.” He then shrugged. “Besides, we’ll be spending most of our time in the Council Meeting, I’ll be doing the talking for us.”

There were a few mutters of agreement and relief from the party at that, and Bog turned to his mother once more. “Remember, if anything happens while I’m gone, send –"

“ –  _Send word straight away,_  yeah, I know!” Griselda put her hands on her hips and shook her head at him. “But nothin’s gonna happen, ya worrywart! Besides, like I wanna risk your first big meeting with them-“

“The Kingdom comes first,” Bog said, his tone final. “I’m serious, Mother, swear that you’ll tell me if there’s any threat –"

“I swear, I swear,” Griselda mockingly crossed her heart, but Bog knew he could trust her. Despite all her nagging and blabber, there was a reason that the little Gobliness had weathered her reign as Queen of the Dark Forest with so few incidences. She then grinned up at her son once more, her eyes full of affectionate pride. “Now go knock ‘em dead, honey.” 

“That would hardly help relations,” Bog said dryly, but nonetheless gave her a small, one-sided smile before he flew out of the entrance, waving his scepter at his retinue to follow. They flew after him with the usual raucous cries, the echoes of which rang throughout the shadows of the Dark Forest.  

* * *

 

“Bog King,” Greeted the same blue-eyed guard from Bog’s last time, his tone respectful even if there was a begrudging cast to his features. He eyed the rest of the goblins as they followed their King’s, scrambling off of the balcony where they had been instructed to land, and his lip curled a bit. His two companions echoed his expression, but at least they weren’t baring their blades. “The Queen will be on her way shortly. You shan’t wait long.” 

Bog betrayed a grim smile at that, though his eyes remained cold. “I best not.” 

Savoring the look of thwarted outrage in all three of their faces, Bog then turned to look back at his group, who were whispering and muttering over this strange new place, full of light and fresh air. All were obviously on edge, even Stuff and Thang who had been with him before. Frankly, Bog could not blame them. As they had flown over the Fields, he had seen some of its residents below, gathering in groups and pointing upwards at them, their topic of conversation obvious. Their expressions had ranged from curious to fearful to disgusted. Bog had expected nothing less. The Fairy King and Queen’s announcement of joining together with his Kingdom in diplomacy was obviously not warmly embraced by all of their subjects -

“Your majesty!” Turning at the welcoming voice, Bog saw Queen Marianne walk to him down the hall, her gown now pale blue and her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m so pleased that you could make it.” Her dark eyes widened a bit when she took in the goblins lurking behind him, but otherwise Bog had to say her reaction was admirable for someone who was unused to the appearances of his people.

Darting a quick glance at Bog, Queen Marianne inclined her head and gave all of them a gracious smile. “Thank you for making the journey today. I truly appreciate your time.”

The goblins blinked at her, not expecting such cordiality. Neither had Bog, honestly, who couldn’t help raising a brow in surprise. It was one thing to have her treat him, a fellow ruler, in a respectful manner, but to give the same courtesy to creatures that weren’t even of her Kingdom…

Trying to make sure Queen Marianne wouldn’t notice, Bog subtly motioned for them to respond back in some way, and they fumbled amongst themselves before Thang gave a timid little bow. The others quickly followed suit, darting anxious looks at their King.

Bog gave a tiny nod. It would do. His people had never really tried to school themselves in social niceties. 

Looking like she was repressing a smile, the Queen’s eyes then darted to where the three guards stood, an air of sullenness hanging over them. “I…I hope that you experienced a better welcome than you did last time.”

“Relatively,” Bog replied dryly. Seeing how her shoulders sank at that, though, he scolded himself –  _stop creating discord_  - and added quickly, “But there were no true problems.”

Queen Marianne gave a genuine smile at that, and Bog could see how eager she was for this meeting, it lit her face so. “Then let us hope that streak of luck continues,” she said, gesturing to the hall and beginning to walk down it.

Bog gave a click of his claws to his group to follow him before he fell in step with the Queen, letting her lead him. As they made their way down it, Bog tried to look around as subtly as he could. It wasn’t too different from the first hall he had been in; everything gilded and polished, the motif of flowers and furling vines everywhere. Gods, but they loved their baubles, didn’t they? The sheer shine of everything was nigh overwhelming, and Bog thought back to the comforting shadows and dimness of his own Kingdom with a faint pang. It was easier to hide in the dark, and such an action was becoming more and more tempting…

The Queen looked back at his group, biting her lip. She was exceedingly more composed than the last time Bog had seen her, but he could feel some nervousness remained. “I may have to fetch some more chairs for your council members –"

“They’re not really my, ah, council,” Bog said, finding it increasingly difficult to ignore how tight and coiled his stomach was getting, how his wings were twitching. He was not bloody nervous, he was not, there was nothing to be nervous about. “They’re more of an…” –  _gods, what would she understand?_ – “…An honor guard, I suppose. We don’t have councils as you do.”

She seemed taken aback by that. “No councils? Then who do you meet with to discuss your Kingdom’s issues?”

“We have the Elders of the Forest,” Bog replied. “I suppose they could count as one. Each of them keeps record of the history and law of the Dark Forest, and each King must meet with them to keep both alive.”

Queen Marianne nodded slowly, her eyes thoughtful. “Ours is a bit like that – we love our traditions here,” she said with a somewhat rueful smile. “It’s when they hold us back from progress that we run into trouble. It seems like change can never exist with some resistance.”

Bog felt a smile pull at his lips despite himself. “As is always the case. When I first took the throne, it seemed like the Elders and I would never find common ground.”

She looked at him curiously. “What changed?”

 _Everything._  Bog looked away, his smile fading. “I grew up.”

She continued to look at him, her brows knitting, and he could tell she wanted to ask for more. Thankfully, she seemed to decide that prying further would be unwise and passed a hand through her locks, tucking a stray piece behind an ear. “Would…your Elders ever be open to the idea of joining us at a meeting?” 

Bog tried to stop his bark of laughter at that, but some escaped in a huff. “I’m…not sure if that would be very wise. They’re quite ancient, and remembering all the grievances and slights other kingdoms is a specialty of theirs.” He glanced down at her, a wry glint in his eyes. “Particularly those from the Fairy Kingdom.”

She looked away at that, a bit subdued. “Ah…well, that’s…understandable. I know there have been wars in the past.”

“My fathe – ah, the Gravener King harbored no affection for those who lay outside his realm.” Bog gave a slight crick of his neck, not sure why he was saying this. It wasn’t like he owed her an explanation, not like he was trying to show her  _he_  hadn’t been the one to encourage such a mindset. Nonetheless, he continued on, his tone determinedly casual. “He and the Elders agreed on goblins keeping to our own. When I began my rule, it was a…point of contention.”   

Queen Marianne gave a little hum at that that might’ve been laughter. “Oooh, I’m familiar with those.”

Bog gave a sharp glance at her, but though there was an amused twist to her lips, it wasn’t mocking. Looking away, he betrayed another soft exhale of a laugh. Gods, here he was, the King of the Dark Forest, Ruler of Goblins, walking alongside a Fairy and having an actual discussion with her, and a relatively painless one at that. What else would this day bring?

They reached the door to the Council Chamber, the murmur of voices muffled behind the great golden doors, when Bog remembered something. “How were you able to convince the King to this meeting?”

Queen Marianne let out a gusty exhale and shrugged her shoulders. “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t. He came around to it on his own.” She seemed as surprised as Bog was, and he thought back to those bright eyes, glinting with arrogance and weakness, his unhappiness with his Queen going behind his back. What had prompted such a turn around…?

Queen Marianne continued, her voice softening to a murmur. “Frankly, I’m not sure  _what_  made him change his mind, but he seems dreadfully excited now to speak with you. So…” she paused and gave him a slight, one-sided smile, “…at least he’s eager.”  She then gestured to the door, her eyebrows raised a bit teasingly. “Shall we?”

Bog was tempted to give a growl at her gentle baiting, but remembered how badly she reacted to his first display of ferocity and merely settled for rolling his eyes. He remembered his Father saying that fairies were naturally predisposed to a certain fragility of nerves, and she seemed to be no exception. It wouldn’t do for him to forget himself and react with his natural fierceness when she was so delicate –

He gestured to the door sardonically. “As you wish, your highness.”  

Queen Marianne took a deep breath and then opened the doors, revealing a large, circular chamber awash with clear light, pouring in from a domed skylight above them. Tall, graceful pillars circled the room, and in the center a long, golden table stood, where some other fairies were already seated, chatting. They quickly looked up, and their pleasant smiles at the sight of their Queen froze as Bog and his goblins entered the room.

Bog repressed a sigh.  _And so it begins_.

He cracked his neck and sharply gestured to his retinue to stay behind him, a command that they seemed all to eager to follow. He then followed Queen Marianne as she approached the table, her skirts swishing, and determinedly ignored the eyes of the Council members upon him.  There were murmurs of “ _your highness”_  and  _“my Queen”_  from them as she walked by, but Bog heard other mutters of a much darker note as he passed. He grit his teeth.  _It’s just the first meeting. You expected as much._

If she heard such mutters, Queen Marianne wasn’t letting them effect her, looking as poised as ever as she reached the head of the table. “You may sit here,” she said, indicating a large chair – thankfully large enough for him, Bog saw with no small sense of relief. He wasn’t about to make a fool of himself by attempting to fold himself into a too small seat.

She continued, pointing to the grand, ornate chair at the head of the table and a smaller but equally ornate one across from Bog. “Roland and I will sit here, so we can answer any of your questions.”

Bog nodded shortly and looked around once more, scanning the chairs that still remained empty. “When will the others be joining us?”

“Roland should be here shortly, he’ll be bringing the rest of the Council with him.”

Bog slowly pulled out his chair and sat down cautiously, still eyeing the seating. “If there’s more to come, will there be enough room for them?” He waved a claw back at his goblins, still close by and still looking anxious despite their fierce fronts.

The Queen nodded once more. “It will be a bit squished, but I’m sure –"

“And here we are!”

There was an immediate scraping of chairs, and all the fairies rose as one as King Roland entered, his crown and armor glinting, leading another group of fairies. Bog stayed in his seat, intent on observing all details. Besides, one King did not have to rise for another.

King Roland beamed at the room at large, full of easy charm, before giving a gracious nod to Bog. “I am honored that you decided to return after your last visit, your majesty. I realize that I was being a tad abrupt in my decision to forgo this whole diplomacy business.”

Bog returned the nod, though his was far cooler. “What’s done is done. We need to focus on what’s best for both our realms.”  _Hopefully I can keep that in mind when dealing with you._  Bog couldn’t explain where his distaste for this man was coming from, but was aware that he would simply have to master it if any of this were to work.

King Roland laughed at that, though Bog couldn’t see what was so amusing about his reply. “Goodness, but you sound like Marianne. It’s all because of her that this little venture even saw the light of day!” There were some mixed murmurs at that, but a small round of applause was given. Queen Marianne lifted a hand in acknowledgment, but otherwise seemed rather tense, pulling out her chair and smoothing down her dress.

“And there she is, the prettiest Queen a King could ever have!” Giving her a glinting smile, King Roland leaned over and kissed Queen Marianne’s cheek. “My darlin’, you’re looking fresh as a daisy and twice as lovely. Simply beautiful.”

“Thank you, Roland,” she replied, but her voice seemed a bit tired, as if it were a rote response.

He chuckled and gently chucked her under her chin. “I told you that dress would look better on you, didn’t I? That plum one was nice, sure, but I know what suits my Queen.”

Queen Marianne sighed as she settled down into her chair. “It’s just a dress, Roland.” There was a definite note of flatness to her voice at that, and Bog noticed that she kept her eyes on the table.

Roland paid her no mind, clapping his hands together merrily. “Well now, gentlemen, shall we proceed?”

Bog was about to once more request that chairs be brought forth for his group when King Roland gave a startled leap back, his eyes wide as he looked at Stuff and Thang and the others. “ _Whatthe-?!_  Uh, Marianne? Care to explain –"

“I told you, Roland, the Bog King requested to bring some of his own members of his court.” The Queen look faintly peeved now. “I mentioned it more than once –"

Bog leaned forward, already feeling a growl start in the back of his throat. “If I’ve been mislead in this matter –" he began, already fixing a hard stare at Queen Marianne. If she went behind her King once again in some misguided attempt –

“No no no, you haven’t been mislead, I remember that conversation!” King Roland hastily assured both of them. “I simply was surprised to see them in the Chamber, you know. They’ll need to leave once we begin our meeting.”

Bog looked at him sharply. “Leave?”

King Roland nodded firmly, though he still eyed the goblins with distaste as they began to mutter anxiously amongst themselves. “Well, yes. This was only intended to be a meeting between the Council and the rulers of each Kingdom, we can’t have just  _anybody_  in the Chamber –"

Queen Marianne turned to her King at that, her eyes narrowing. “You never once mentioned that –"

“Because I thought it was  _obvious_ , my sweet,” King Roland replied gentle drawl of amusement, and a few more chuckles swept through the room. The Queen sat back in her chair, her cheeks growing flushed. “But for now…” King Roland straightened and waved a hand to the door. “Your people may wait outside. I’ll see to it that no one disturbs them.”

Bog’s scales were rattling, and he desperately fought to keep his cool. “I brought them here with me so that they could also inform this Council about my Kingdom –" he began, irritation already giving his voice a bite.

“Next meeting, then,” King Roland interrupted, giving him a broad grin. “For now, let’s keep it cozy, hmmm?”   

Bog was tempted for one wild moment to claw that grin off of the smug whelp’s face, but was thankfully able to reign in that impulsive –  _impetuous_ – desire. He settled for merely glaring at the Fairy King before snapping his claws at the goblins, making them spring to immediate attention. They needed to see that their King refused to be shaken by such rudeness. “Stuff, lead them back to the balcony. Wait there, and remember my orders.”

“Roger that, Sire,” Stuff replied smartly, though her eyes were a mix of worry and disdain as she darted a quick glance at King Roland. She turned and waddled briskly out of the room, the others following her. Muggon – one of the fiercer ones – briefly looking over his shoulder at his King before giving a faint nod to the sword that hung at the Fairy King’s side, his eyes wary.  _He brought a weapon. Be careful._

Bog nodded briefly and gripped his scepter a bit tighter.  _I’m aware. Keep going._

After they had filed out, the door shut with a final sounding boom, and Bog knew that he had to be even more alert. He was on his own…

Gathering his wits, Bog looked around and felt a sudden wave of confusion. “I was also under the impression we were meeting with the whole Council.”

One of the members coughed into a hand. “We are, your majesty.”

Bog gestured to the table, grimacing in befuddlement. “But…there’s only fairies here.”

“Well, it  _is_  the Fairy Kingdom,” another Councilor replied, a bit condescendingly. A faint ripple of amusement went through the room at that.

Bog gritted his teeth. “As I am aware,” he replied, putting enough of a growl into his voice that it made any mockery shrivel up like a worm under the sun. Satisfied, he continued, turning to King Roland. “I’m also aware that it’s not just fairies under your rule. Where are the representatives for the elves and the others who live in the Fields?”

King Roland gave another laugh at that, his teeth shining. “Why would the elves need representation? Fairies have looked after them well enough in the past, and,” he gave a satisfied smile to the others there, “there’s been no complaints now.”

Queen Marianne quickly leaned forward. “But it  _is_  one of our aims to change that,” she said to Bog, her voice earnest. “All factions in our Kingdom need to be heard, and a representative from each one would help –"

“Oh Buttercup, the Council is fine the way it is right now,” King Roland said carelessly, settling into the ornate chair at the head of the table with a content groan. “Too much change all at once only invites chaos, sweet-pea. Lets just take it one small step at a time, hmmm?”

Bog had often said a similar statement –  _with out order what is left?_  – but he nonetheless bristled to hear it voiced in such blasé, comfortably condescending tones. And to speak that way to his own Queen! Gods,  _this_ was what the fairies deemed acceptable in a monarch?

Knowing he couldn’t let his temper get the best of him so early on, Bog merely scowled and looked around the table once more. Not only were there only fairies, but also the Queen seemed to be the sole woman present. Bog’s brow knit as his bewilderment grew– weren’t female fairies of equal importance to this land?  

He was distracted from his thoughts as King Roland leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table. “This meeting shall commence,” he stated, and then nodded to his Queen. “Darling, since this venture has been your idea from the start, how about you do the honors?”

Queen Marianne nodded and straightened her spine, taking a deep breath before beginning. “First and foremost, I want to thank the Bog King once more for agreeing to this meeting,” she said, nodding to Bog. “I know that the idea of diplomacy between the Dark Forest and this Kingdom has caused many people to be nervous, but I truly believe that we can accomplish something great with this, something that will only serve to strengthen our realms and help our people.” She paused, and Bog had a feeling that she had practiced this little speech numerous times. He hid a smirk - he had done the same thing before he had given his first address to the Forest.

She flicked a piece of hair out of her eyes and continued, her voice growing stronger. “Secondly, the Council has heard my concerns for this Kingdom in the past. We’ve abolished many of the laws that only served to oppress the elves, but prejudice towards them still remains. What’s more, there has been no progress in either our educational programs nor in our diplomacy with other kingdoms, excluding the Southern Fairy Empire. But…” she paused once more and gave a slightly hesitant glance towards Bog, her large eyes glimmering, “…most importantly, we have not heard what  _you_  wish for the Dark Forest. Perhaps we can find common ground. Are there any particular issues would you like to address, your majesty?”

Now it was Bog’s turn to take a deep breath.  _Right_. “The Forest is also stagnating – diplomacy is only a relatively new concept there. You are all aware that I have been diligent in keeping those who do not belong to my realm out, for good reason.” There were a few mutters at that, but everyone seemed to know not to speak, nor mention his infamous ban.

Bog continued, feeling some of his tension leave him. “But the Forest is a vast one, greater than your Fields. It is difficult to keep track of who enters and who leaves. Such a task takes time that would be better spent else where.” Bog leaned forward in his seat, intent. “I see only two options – I can continue to increase the guards at the edge of the Forest, or…I can lessen the amount, and open the Borders with the promise of cooperation from your Kingdom.”

Shocked murmurs exploded at that – the Dark Forest had been a forbidden realm for almost as long as all could remember; to have the Borders opened was unheard of -

Queen Marianne leaned forward, her eyes intent. “With the Borders open, would we be able to travel through the Forest with no threat of attack?”

Bog nodded. “As long as the traveler didn’t provoke them, the inhabitants of my land would offer no harm –"

“One would simply have to be wary about brewing potions,” one Fairy with a salt and pepper beard muttered dryly to his companion, smirking.

Bog whipped his head around, teeth bared. “ _What was that?”_  He snarled.

The Fairy took one look at Bog’s fangs and went pale. “I – it was simply a jest –"

“Sir Anthony,” the Queen’s voice was cool. “May I enquire how old you are?”

The Fairy fumbled with his answer, torn between paying attention to his Queen and keeping an eye on Bog’s murderous expression. “I – I’ve just passed my fortieth Summer, your highness –“

“Then I suggest you forgo the jests and act your age,” Queen Marianne said, cool and keen as a blade. “Before I send you from this Council like a child. Understood?”

Despite his ire, Bog couldn’t help but look at the young Queen with new admiration in his eyes – gods, the insult was cutting enough, but in that frost of a voice, it  _had_  to hurt –

“Aw, Buttercup, no need to get snippy,” King Roland chuckled, waving his hand. “No harm was done, and I’m sure the Bog King can take a joke!”

Bog was about to show just how much a joke he could take when a younger looking Fairy leaned forward, his light green eyes curious and wary. “Could trading with the Foresters be a possibility?”

Queen Marianne opened her mouth, flushed, and looked at Bog. It took him a few moments to realize that she was waiting for him to answer the question.

“Ah, uh…it could, um, definitely be a possibility,” Bog said cautiously. He wasn’t sure if he should address the Fairy or the table at large. “I suppose it would depend on what you were wishing to trade. The Dark Forest has different plants then your Kingdom does –"

The young Fairy nodded. “We’ve been looking to find new types of medicines. Perhaps a foraging party could enter the Forest and see what can be useful –" 

“But the Forest contains naught but poisonous plants -!”

“Not just poison, though, surely –"

“How about your weapons?”

The table quieted at that, looking to the Fairy King as he waited for Bog’s reply. 

Bog raised a brow. “Come again?”

“I imagine,” King Roland drawled, sprawling a bit in his seat, “that a race as fierce as your own would have unlimited weapons at its disposal. Weapons that could easily equip an entire army, and make them one of the most feared forces in all the realms.”

Bog couldn’t repress a snort at that. “Goblins don’t require the same weapons you do,” he said dryly, running his tongue along his fangs and drumming his sharp claws against the table’s surface.

King Roland waved that away. “But you do have them, do you not? And with the poisons that can be found in your realm, imagine what could be made –"

 _“Roland,”_  Queen Marianne hissed, looking torn between horror and shock. “Roland, please don’t –"

Bog leaned forward, ignoring her, but he felt a strange sense of unease at this conversation. “What exactly are you proposing?”

King Roland smiled. “I’m sure you know that the Fairy Kingdom’s army is one of the finest in the land. I want my warriors to be recognized as the best. Therefore, they need the best, fiercest weapons.” He leaned back in his seat, completely at ease. “If you were to offer a trade of some, I’m sure many would take it as a show of good faith between our kingdoms.”

Bog tried very hard not to gape at him, disbelieving anger beginning to simmer in his chest. “I come here to talk of diplomacy, and you want  _a show of good faith?_  By surrendering my weapons to you?!”

“One can never have too many demonstrations when one deals with goblins,” said one council member coolly.

“We remember past wars, Bog King,” said another, a quarrelsome quality to his voice. “We won’t be taken under false promises from creatures –"

“Councilors, enough!” Queen Marianne’s voice was sharp, and she turned beseeching eyes to Bog. “Please, we won’t talk about this anymore, the threat of wars and weapons aren’t the things we should be concerned about –"

“But the threat of war is always very real,” King Roland said, nodding his head sagely.

Bog glared at them, all of them, incensed.  _“From my Kingdom?”_  he snarled. “We have  _nothing_  to gain from war with you.”

Queen Marianne shook her head frantically. “No one has anything to gain from war! Please, forget about the weapons, I don’t want that to be the reason –"

“Ah-ah-ah, Buttercup, darlin’,” King Roland shook his head at her, an indulgent smile on his face. “I think you’ll find you’re outnumbered in this regard. But by all means, lets makes this nice and fair.” He stood and gestured expansively to the whole table. “Those who are in favor of gaining new weapons for our army?”

Many hands went up, and Bog felt a roll of disgusted incredulousness wash through him. So quick to turn on his realm, so quick to regard his offer with suspicion and scorn, they demanded a bloody show of faith, his presence here at their wretched meeting wasn’t enough,  _how dare they_  –

King Roland smiled, beaming and bright as his garish armor. “Well, I think that’s a majority!” He turned to Bog, looking extremely satisfied. “I hope that you have sufficient supplies, your majesty, my army is quite –"

**_BANG._ **

The slam of a fist upon the table had all the Council jumping, and the King flinched too, recoiling. Bog, meanwhile, could only stare as Queen Marianne rose from her seat, her dainty hand still clenched, her brilliant eyes spitting flames, her features twisted in pure anger, and gods, the sheer bloody  _ferocity_ pouring off of her –

“This Council would do well to remember that it is not a King alone that makes this Kingdom,” she said between gritted teeth, glaring around the table. When her furious gaze reached her husband, Bog could have sworn the Fairy King wilted a bit under such livid heat.  _Hells…_

She continued on, her ire making each word clear as a bell and sharp as flint. “ _I am your Queen_. I rule this Kingdom as well, and you  _will_ give me due respect and listen to me. I will  _not_  let this venture be tainted by talk of imagined wars or slights. I will not agree to this motion of surrendering weapons, nor will I ever.” She gave one last scorching glance across the table, nearly all of the fairies squirming under her gaze, and then waved her hand abruptly, contempt strong in the gesture. “This meeting is adjourned until further notice. Good day.”

She spared a brief nod to Bog before turning on her heel and sweeping out of the room, her head held high and her wings flaring.

In the ensuing silence, King Roland gave a very forced chuckle. “Ummm, heck of a spitfire I caught, huh? Uh, if you’ll – um, just, uh, just excuse me for a moment –"

His own wings flared open and he quickly flew after her, calling her name frantically. “ _Marianne!_  C’mon, Marianne–!"

The rest of the fairies were muttering, looking shell-shocked from such a fierce display. Some of them continued to look at Bog with the familiar mix of distaste and nerves, but he was unable to pay them any mind, his eyes still fixed on the door where she had disappeared.

She had been nothing short of  _ferocious, absolutely_   _terrifying_  –

Gods, it had been  _magnificent._  

Bog shook his head in admiration. Who in all the realms would have thought a Fairy could be so bloody  _fierce?!_

His own anger and irritation quite forgotten, Bogs leaned back in his seat, unable to keep his grin off of his face. He had no idea if he would stay for the rest of the meeting, or if it would even continue after such a display. Frankly, he didn’t much care. He was too preoccupied with recalling King Roland’s terrified expression and his own assumptions that she would be too delicate to handle his more savage displays.

Bog almost let out a laugh.  _Delicate!_

She certainly hadn’t looked delicate when she had unleashed her fury on the miserable lot. Her fair cheeks flushing hot with anger, the brilliant hazel of her eyes even more lustrous, glinting in scorn and rage, each line of her slender body taut as a bowstring as she called those idiots to order, scalding them with the sheer, fiery  _power_  of her command –

In fact, if Bog had to confess, Queen Marianne was rather… _striking_  when angry.


	5. Chapter Four

**_Chapter Four_  **

 

The large ballroom rang with laughter and song and shone with gilded fountains, sparkling chandeliers and the shimmering, iridescent wings of fairies who swayed and dipped and fluttered to the strains of classic waltz after classic waltz, the sweeping and lovely tunes hanging in the air like fine perfume…

It was bright and elegant, shining and splendid, the perfect picture of polished festivity.

Bog was about to crawl out of his exoskeleton from sheer discomfort. Why had he agreed to bloody come here,  _why….?!_

He leaned back further into the one dark corner this wretched place had, scowling fiercely. He damn well knew the reasons why – Strengthen Relations With The Fairy Kingdom, and Thwart Well Meaning But Annoying Gesture From Mother.

The attempt at diplomacy between the Fairy Kingdom and his own was now in its third week, a fact that never failed to stun him when he truly thought about it. After that spectacle of a first meeting, things had, oddly enough, proceeded rather smoothly. King Roland had groused and pouted about being denied his weapons, of course, and Bog’s disdain for the monarch only deepened. But at least the oaf had sense enough not to cross his Queen again.

After her fiery refusal to go along with the demand of weapons from the goblins, Queen Marianne had proposed to further investigate the idea of foraging for alternative plants for medicine. _“_ Healing as opposed to inflicting wounds”, she had said with a faint archness to her tone, cutting a sharp glance to the other council members, who had all shifted guiltily, squirming like grubs.

Bog had suppressed a smile and agreed, feeling such a thing was only appropriate for the first step of diplomacy. Though now  _he_  had to contemplate about what it was the Fairy Kingdom could offer his people in return. Frankly, he was drawing a blank. His Kingdom had been so fiercely independent for so long, it was hard to think of what they could request that the didn’t already have…

One thing they most empathetically didn’t bloody need, Bog reflected grimly, flexing his claws restlessly and biting down on a scowl, were parties like  _these_.  Even if it was only for diplomacy…

Bog had eyed the invitation with no small amount of revulsion when it had been first been delivered to him from the brambles at the Border. It was the annual Spring Ball for the Fairy Kingdom, a celebration held in high regard by the entire court. Naturally, he had been requested to make an appearance there as an honored guest.

The flowery message, waxing on about an evening of splendor and celebration, had made Bog shudder, his scales crackling. Gods, he loathed parties on principle, but a Fairy one…!

He had understood the challenge of the gesture, of course, he was no fool. It had been quite the sly move on King Roland’s part, extending such an invitation to the notoriously private and dour King of the Dark Forest. If he went, he would be doomed to an evening of politely masked mockery and muttering, forced to make small talk and reminded countless times of the power and prestige King Roland believed the Fairy Kingdom held over his own.  

If he refused, he would risking what he had managed to build so far with the diplomacy, proving the doubters and mutterers right,  _he doesn’t dare embrace our ways, how can he be serious about this venture if he so loathes our dearly beloved celebrations…_

Bog gritted his teeth and sunk further into his corner. Never mind if that was actually  _true…_

In the end, after two days worth of grousing and growling, his decision to respond with an affirmative had been helped by his mother’s own decision to bring home yet  _another_ bevy of suitors.

Bog had quickly informed her that he was otherwise occupied, shoving the invitation in front of her as desperate as he studiously ignored the curious eyes of whatever creatures his dratted mother had managed to dreg up this time.

He had only halted his hasty escape from Griselda’s curious enquiries to brusquely order Stuff and Thang to come along before taking off for the Fairy Kingdom. As they approached, he had listened to the growing music with equally mounting dread…

And so…here he was. Wedged into a corner after the herald had nearly choked when introducing him and his companions.

While Stuff had grumbled about not having time to apply new perfume and Thang had looked ready to faint from nerves, they at least seemed to be having a far better time than he was at any rate. After starting off the party by clinging to his side like two burrs, they had seen the not unimpressive spread of refreshments and had taken off, running through the shocked crowds to snag one of the heaping platters of food from the banquet tables. Forsaking their King in his time of need…

He was pointedly given a wide berth by the other guests, the females wide-eyed with horror and the males protectively grasping their ladies in their arms, as if they were in danger of being seized like some bloody trophy. Murmurs of apprehension had woven in the melody of the evening, and countless judging eyes seemed to weigh on each and every one of his scales.

Bog had given the room at large a venomous glare before retreating to the dimmest area he could find - not an easy feat considering the sheer  _shine_  of this wretched place – and told himself it didn’t matter, he didn’t want to be bothered by their inane chatter anyway…

Bog gave a growl of a sigh. The food was too sweet, the music unceasing, and each one of the guests – once again all fairies, despite this supposedly being a ball for the entire Kingdom – seemed to be having a grand time despite his presence. Meanwhile, he, the King of the Dark Forest, was damn near about to start molting from the sheer stress of the evening. Gods, he didn’t know which was worse, the prospect of no one talking to him or someone attempting to in some misguided sense of politeness as they tried to hide their horror, their fear.

Hells, a King shouldn’t feel so wretchedly bereft, so out of place,  _too different for any of this to bloody work…_

Bog refused to finish the traitorous thought.  _Enough of that._  So he was miserable at a party, that didn’t mean the rest of the diplomacy venture was doomed. It had gone well,  _was_  going well, slowly but surely…

That didn’t stop Bog from snatching up a drink from a passing tray, making the maid carrying it gasp and shrink back, her pale blue wings fluttering. His black mood made it easy for him to ignore her in favor of concentrating on downing the contents of the glass. Finishing it off quickly, he glared at the elegant flute, a sneer crossing his lips. Hardly burned at all. Another strike against this bright and bloody affair – the drinks weren’t nearly strong enough to make him not regret coming here.

_At least you’re not fighting off suitors._

Bog sighed. Gods, even  _that_  seemed more appealing the longer he stayed…  

A sudden fanfare of music broke over the crowd, making Bog’s wings flare in irritation. The sudden tumult of applause from the sea of fairies only served to deepen his scowl as King Roland and Queen Marianne finally made their entrance at the top of the stairs. At least he hadn’t warranted a fanfare, gods knows how Thang would have panicked.

The King of the Fairies waved to the adoring crowd, clearly relishing every bit of attention from his subjects. He had forgone his normal armor, though his attire was still predominantly green. He wore dark green trousers tucked into tall, fawn colored boots, and a spring leaf green doublet that was riddled with so much gilt thread it shone as much as his ridiculous armor did. His crown gleamed along with his teeth as he smiled, and his eyes were as bright as ever as he winked at the crowd.

Bog repressed a growl.  _Prat._

Queen Marianne’s attire was more subdued than her husband’s, pale hues in contrast to his bold, almost brash tones. Her gown seemed to be crafted out of daffodils, the rich golden yellow of the center bloom an underskirt, the pale buttery yellow outer petals draping over it becomingly to form the rest of her dress. She wore no jewelry aside from twin bracelets, golden vines that wove up her wrists delicately. Where her husband’s glory made one squint, the Queen of the Fairies did not shine so much as glow, quiet and possessed and elegant as she gazed at her people, a strange wistfulness to her expression.  

Bog eyed her thoughtfully. Strange that she favored pale, almost faded colors with her dark looks.  _Darker hues would suit her more…_

The fairies continued to cheer, and King Roland leaned over to whisper something to his wife, his teeth still bared in a broad grin. She immediately leaned away and seemed to be replying in the negative, shaking her head, her expression both deeply reluctant and pleading. Yet he suddenly seized her by her shoulders and swung her into a deep dip. She scarcely had time to react when King Roland planted a big, dramatic, smothering kiss on her lips.

The fairies went wild, and Bog’s brows rose before he grimaced.  _That_  looked far from pleasant.  _Fairies and their public displays of affection._  It seemed not even their royalty was immune.

But when Queen Marianne was released from her husband’s tight embrace, pulled smoothly up as he waved off the cheers with an air of playful humbleness, her face was far from any kind of love-struck. In fact, Bog could have sworn there was a faint grimace as she tugged at her dress and smoothed her hair. But her expression was once again poised as she looked over the happy throng, giving a tight smile and then quickly making her way to the refreshments, keeping her eyes on the ground as she passed her guests.

Bog couldn’t help looking after her, both intrigued and disquieted by what he had just saw. Surely the King had known such a display would embarrass his wife, why had he…?

Bog snorted and grabbed another drink. Trying to delve into the logic that fueled the Fairy King’s actions was a task he hadn’t the patience for.

Over the course of his various and frankly irritating interactions with the monarch of the Light Fields, Bog had seen King Roland use his undeniable influence and charm to coax the responses he wanted from his Council, cajoling and speaking smooth words. He had a gift for it, aye, but it was one that Bog, harsh and blunt and vastly preferring fear to charm as a tool, simply could not respect. People may have flinched when they saw him, but at what they saw was what they got. With the Fairy King, the sheer amount of polish and bright armor seemed to forge a mask, one that hid a vast and frankly disturbing void of both intellect and character.

Bog had expected the King to unconcernedly continue his blasé insults and obnoxious arrogance concerning goblins and their realm. But it was becoming more and more apparent to the King of the Dark Forest that the Queen also was frequently talked over, dismissed and disregarded with drawling chuckles and teasing smiles. Bog had looked across the table many a time to see her cheeks go pink at one of his compliments - not flushing in pleasure, but burning in humiliation at the obvious intention behind such flattery. _Be quiet, the men are talking._

Bog had felt some uncomfortable twinges of pity that he shook off to focus on the matters presented during the meeting. Lovers quarreled, that was the end of it. Such nonsense wasn’t his concern. None of Love was his concern, a fact he was damn grateful for. But still…

His claws tapped against his glass as his eyes wandered, almost without thinking, back to Queen Marianne, watching as she stood by the refreshments nursing her own drink, before looking away. Admittedly…he may have found it loathsome that a Queen could be so easily disregarded by her King in the matters of a kingdom that was, by right,  _both_  of theirs. His mother would have never stood for such disrespect. But the memorable fury Queen Marianne had displayed that had so impressed Bog now appeared to have been a rare event. Whatever fire her passion had ignited was now only a faint smoldering. A shame, rage was a weapon she wielded well…

Lifting his glass aimlessly to his lips, Bog was so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed her approach. “Your majesty! I’m so pleased you could make it!”

Bog immediately choked on his drink, and tried reign in the severe bout of coughing that followed, ducking his head down and pounding on his chest. His eyes watering, he looked up to see Queen Marianne regarding him with an expression that looked torn between guilt and barely suppressed laughter. Bog bit back a scowl.  _And the evening just keeps getting better and better…_

“Your highness,” he returned, his voice still faintly hoarse. He coughed once more into his fist, and gestured to her. “You’re looking…well.”

Queen Marianne lifted her brows at that, but a smile still teased at her lips. “Thank you.” She took in the corner he had claimed, its dim shadows and its distance away from the crowd and bit her lip. “Dare I ask how you’re finding this evening?”

Bog snorted and looked away, too irritated to give the polite, bland response that was expected. “As well as I expected to. Goblins don’t have parties like this.” He muttered, hoping that was a sufficient response.

To his surprise, she sighed and nodded. “One thing your Kingdom has over ours. We love our galas over here to an almost exhausting degree. And the Spring Ball never fails to be the most exhausting one of them all.”

He quirked a brow at her, surprised by her tone. “I thought this celebration was dearly beloved by  _all_  of the Kingdom.” He didn’t bother to keep the dryness out of his voice.

Queen Marianne gave a small laugh, her cheeks a bit pink, and one slender hand lifted to rub at the back of her neck, the curling golden bands at her wrist glinting in the light. “It  _is_  highly anticipated by most of us, true, but…I don’t know, I’m…I’m honestly not one for parties, I guess. I used to love them when I was younger, when I didn’t have the demands of being the Queen on top of being a guest, but…well, that’s changed.” She sighed, straightening her posture. “Now, it’s more tiring than anything else.” 

Bog cocked his head. “Then why go to them?”

“It’s expected of me,” she said simply. “As Queen, I need to attend all festivities in this Kingdom. It lets them know I want them to be happy.” She suddenly snorted, her face wry. “Besides, who ever heard of a Fairy who doesn’t enjoy parties?” She said dryly, with the air of quoting someone, her lips twisting a bit with the words.

Bog chuckled. “Is one not allowed to be different amongst fairies?”

She gave a faint smile at that. “Not when one is Queen and has to put her Kingdom first.”

Bog recognized the wariness in her voice, the same tiredness that crept into the bones of anyone who had the burden of a crown placed upon them, heads held high and proud and spines unable to buckle under the weight of it all. This was hardly the kind of cheerful, banal talk one was expected to engage in at parties, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. For the first time during this whole wretched evening, he was finally feeling something other than irritated boredom. He cracked his neck and looked over the room. “Tiring or not, it seems like quite a success,” he offered, feeling a bit awkward. “I’d say you did well.”  

She looked at him, surprised. “Thank you,” she murmured, her golden brown eyes looking at him with curious gratitude. “That’s…very kind of you to say.” She gave a sudden, almost embarrassed laugh. “Especially since you seem bored to tears by the whole thing. Did you at least find the food any good?”

Bog tried to school his grimace into something more acceptable. “It’s…far different than what we have back in the Forest, but I suppose for fairies it’s quite –"

“I didn’t ask if it was good for fairies, I asked if  _you_  liked it,” Queen Marianne gently interrupted, a friendly challenge to her gaze. 

Bog gave a slight growl.  _Very well then._  “No, I don’t.” He said bluntly. “Far too sweet.”

She nodded, unperturbed. “Fair enough. Maybe next time we can have some of your food served as well. It wouldn’t hurt any of us to try something new.” A sudden gleam came into her eyes. “Actually…that’s something to contemplate. Maybe both of us need to work on introducing new crops to harvest, from both Forest and Field. At the very least, the food could certainly be another thing to trade. Would the land here be able to support your crops?” 

Bog eyed her, intrigued. “To be completely honest, we haven’t had much of a harvest in ages. Food bearing plants don’t do well in the Forest, there’s not enough light. Most of the goblins prefer meat above anything else, but it’s often too marshy to properly yield anything anyway, so we’ve never –"

A sudden burst of laughter erupted over the room, and Bog and Queen Marianne turned to look at the source of it. King Roland was gesticulating wildly at the crowd, the three Fairy cronies who had given Bog such hell obviously helping him act out a tale of heroism the King had been a part of.

Bog felt his eagerness fade. “Your King doesn’t seem to have any issues with handling parties,” he muttered dryly.

Queen Marianne gave a small shrug, her own enthusiasm waning. “That’s Roland for you. He’s always known how to play people, and they love him for it. Parties have always been effortless for him.”

“It’s odd to see him without the armor,” Bog observed, eyeing the dashing Fairy, hoping his distaste wasn’t coming through too strong.

“As long as he has the crown, he can be convinced to wear something else for a change.” She folded her arms and stared across the hall at her husband, her face hard to read. “He does adore that thing.” The Queen paused and then gave a dry little laugh. “Of course he would, it accessorizes his hair perfectly.”

Bog couldn’t help the bark of laughter that escaped him at that, and Queen Marianne gave a tiny grin even as she looked a bit shame-faced at herself. Bog looked at her with renewed interest. She had quite a mouth on her, didn’t she?

The hint of a smile still lingering at her lips and tucking a stray lock behind an ear, Queen Marianne looked over the crowd. “My sister and her husband were supposed to be here by now. She never misses a dance if she can help it.” She exhaled, fond exasperation in her eyes. “One of the many ways in which we differ. I had hoped to introduce you.”

Bog tried not to roll his eyes.  _Because no party is complete with awkward introductions._  “Won’t she be, ah… _hesitant_  to meet with a Goblin?” He had heard that the Queen’s younger sister was of a far more nervous disposition, and the memory of how Queen Marianne had stared at him during their first meeting, those large hazel eyes wide with apprehension, still burned clear. What would  _her_  reaction be? Bog rather felt he had been subjected to enough hastily muffled horror for the evening.

Queen Marianne shot him a look that said she knew damn well what he was implying. “Well, yes,” she said frankly. “Until now, you’ve been quite the fearsome figure to most of us. Hence,” she smirked at him, her eyes sparkling with sly amusement, “the introduction. Unless you  _want_  to continue spending parties alone in a corner?”

Bog scowled at her, reflexively leaning even further back into the shadows. “It’s a temptation,” he retorted, a hint of a growl in his voice.

“And one I know well, believe me,” she replied, openly smiling now, though it was far from mocking. Gods, but did her youth come back to her with how it lit her face. A smile seemed more natural to her than the cool elegance she wore in front of the Council and courtiers. Bog felt his own mouth quirk a bit despite himself as she playfully held up a finger and continued. “Just  _one_ introduction, and then we can say you had very urgent matters to attend to back at the Forest. Besides, she honestly  _is_  very curious to meet you. Agree?”

Bog looked away, shaking his head, but his exhale was full of dry amusement rather than bitter wariness and the look he shot her was just as sly as her own. “I’ve heard your terms, your highness, and agree to them.” He pointed his own claw at her, and she bit down on what was clearly a laugh. “ _Very reluctantly_ , mind you.”  

“And diplomacy continues to thrive,” Queen Marianne said dryly, but her eyes sparkled with genuine warmth and mirth as she turned to the crowd. “I’ll be back as soon as I can find her, try not to move.”

“That won’t be difficult,” Bog muttered to himself, keeping an eye on her as she wove her way between the guests and feeling considerably more cheerful, fool that he was. Meet one Fairy Princess and then back to the Forest.  _Daunting, but easily done._ Hopefully the suitors would have cleared out by now; he had been gone long enough…

There was a sudden blur of pale blue and gold through the crowd, and a shrill cry.  _“MARIANNE!_  I’M SO SORRY I’M LATE, OH MY GOSH, I MEANT TO GET HERE AS SOON AS I COULD -!”

Bog tensed as the noisy blur launched itself at the Queen, unsure what to make of such an attack, his scales already beginning to rattle.

But then Queen Marianne threw her head back and laughed, and she grabbed the blur in her arms in fierce hug, and Bog saw that it was actually another Fairy, a slender young female with a fluffy shock of golden locks that bore a striking resemblance to the crown of a dandelion. Her pale wings were a soft golden apricot that was tinged with pink, making the delicate blue of her gown even more striking.

Bog gaped.  _This_  was the Queen’s sister? Gods, but it was like day and night, dusk and–

“Dawn,” the Queen laughed, pulling away a bit from the embrace, “I need to be able to breath, you doof –"

The little creature let out a huff, rolling large blue eyes. “Well  _excuse_ me for missing you! Oh, Marianne, I  _hate_  how busy you’ve become with this diplomacy thing, I swear it’s been  _forever_  since we last talked-!”

“It’s been four weeks, Dawn,” the Queen chided gently, though her face was full of affection as she reached out a hand to tuck a springy little lock behind one ear, the gesture almost motherly.

“Like I said, forever,” Princess Dawn said, looping an arm through Queen Marianne's. “But it’s okay, I’ve been keeping busy with doing what you asked me to do because there’s no better sister than me, which is why I’m your favorite.” She poked a finger at the Queen, smiling. “Go on, say it. Say that I’m your favorite sister ever.”

Queen Marianne rolled her eyes and shook her head, groaning playfully. “Out of all the other nonexistent sisters I have,  _yes,_  you are my favorite –"

“You bet,” the Fairy Princess nodded, satisfied. “And you’re gonna love me even more when I tell you how I single-handedly had the Elf Village start brainstorming and drafting up their own codes for trading –"

Queen Marianne seized her sister’s hands, looking delighted. “Dawn, that’s wonderful!”

Princess Dawn beamed at the praise, and Bog was struck by the sheer appropriateness of her name, what with the sheer  _light_ the wee thing gave off. “Sunny was a big help too, you should have heard his speech to the other elves. He’s gonna join us once he gets through the rest of the talks.” She sighed dreamily. “He’s so  _wonderful._  Oh Marianne, there’s  _nothing_  like being married.”

The Queen’s happy smile swiftly dropped at that, her expression going unreadable, her wings falling behind her.

Princess Dawn’s eyes widened. “ _Oh!_  Oh, I – Marianne, I’m so – I meant for me and- I mean –"

“I know,” the Queen interrupted, placing a gentle hand on her sister’s shoulder. Bog watched them, hardly daring to breath, determined to get every word despite the continued hum of the party. He shouldn’t be listening in, Mother’s influence was wearing off, but  _what was happening, what had she meant -?_

The Queen continued, her murmur soft and her gaze withdrawn. “I know what you meant, Dawn. It’s okay.” 

Her wings fluttering anxiously and her expression full of trepidation, Princess Dawn bit her lip as Bog had seen her older sister do countless times, before timidly venturing, “So, um…how  _is_  Roland?”

Queen Marianne gave her a one sided smile, looking tired. “As he always is. Still dragging his feet when it comes to the diplomacy, but at least he doesn’t have time to –"

Princess Dawn gave a sudden gasp, and Bog realized, with no small amount of alarm, that her light blue eyes had caught a glimpse of him, skulking in his corner and halfway between dim shadow and bright light. They had widened to almost comic proportions, and Bog swore he could already see the shock and fear beginning to form in their soft periwinkle depths.  _Oh hells, oh gods, please don’t –_

 _“Marianne! Is that him?!”_ Princess Dawn’s hissed query was sharp and not at all subtle, and Queen Marianne turned, her amber gaze also going to Bog –

“Darlin’ Dawn! Lovely as ever!”

King Roland sauntered over to his Queen and her sister with his three lackeys, beaming and clearly in good spirits –  _in more ways than one,_  Bog noted, raising an unimpressed brow at the large goblet of fairy wine the King sloshed about so freely. The two sisters turned away, and Bog felt an overwhelming sense of relief.  _Hells, that was close._   

King Roland reached out a hand and grabbed Princess Dawn, pulling her into a one armed hug. “We need to get you away from that Village more often, darlin’! Parties just ain’t the same without you here, ask anyone!”

Princess Dawn gave a little laugh, delicately pulling away from him. “Well, it is my home now, Roland –"

King Roland waved his hand as though chasing away gnats. “Oh,  _pshaw,_ baby-doll! I still think ya need to move back into the Palace. Snowy can come too, heaven knows he won’t take up much room!” He let out a great guffaw of laughter, and the three guards quickly joined in. A certain look flashed across the young Fairy Princess’s face, and Bog swore he could see the Queen’s knuckles tighten as she gave her King a narrow-eyed look.  _The Elf Village was her home? Did that mean she had married -?_

Catching the glower beginning to form on her sister’s face, Princess Dawn quickly squared her shoulders and gave her brother-in-law a sweet smile. “Thank you once again for the offer, Roland, but  _Sunny_  is needed in the Elf Village, and my place is with him -”

“I still can’t believe it was an  _Elf_  that stole the hand of the youngest Fairy Princess out from under all those other fellows noses!” King Roland chuckled. “Many a young Fairy’s heart was broken the day you got hitched, Dawn, I remember how popular you were with the boys – they’ll be over the moon to see you tonight!”

Princess Dawn passed a hand through her hair, her smile looking faintly strained. “Oh, well, it will be nice to see them too, but I’ve promised all my dances to Sunny, of course –"

King Roland continued, not seeming to even hear her words. “Heck, Marianne was getting as mopey as a toadstool in the rain without you. She kept complaining about a headache tonight, acting all  _gloomy_  about the party.” He waggled a finger playfully at his Queen. “I haven’t seen her with such grim eyes since she used to wear that dreadful makeup!” He let out another laugh, doubling over in mirth. “You remember that, Buttercup? You tried that silly look for about a week before I made you see reason! Lord, but you were stubborn about it!”

“You certainly wore me down in the end.” Queen Marianne’s voice was flat, any joy and enthusiasm her sister’s presence had sparked now extinguished as she watched her King nearly cry with hilarity, her face stoic and her eyes gleaming in a strange way.  

Bog continued to watch, incredulous with disgust over what a fool the King was making of himself.  _Why_  was she allowing this, and  _what_  had her sister meant by -?

King Roland let out a hiccup, wiping his tears away from his jewel-bright eyes. “Aw, Dawn, seriously honey, you need to visit more! It ain’t just the fellows that will be pleased as punch to see ya! Why, Melinda was just sayin’- ” he turned and bellowed over his shoulder, “MELINDA! C’MON OVER HERE, SUGAR!”

A redheaded fairy flitted over, her pale yellow wings fluttering gracefully. She landed, adjusting her dress of cream-colored rose petals and tossing her long hair back before giving a glimmering smile. “Dawn, darling! I was just telling our dear King how much I’ve missed you!”

Princess Dawn returned her smile, though her eyes were still flitting back to her bother-in-law every once and a while. “That’s so sweet of you, Melinda, it’s good to see you too –"

Melinda gave a silvery laugh, tossing her hair once more. “Truly, all of us girls are starved for your company. It’s so tempting to just hate that little Elf of yours for stealing you away from us!”

Princess Dawn smile dropped at that. “Melinda, don’t even joke about that, I love Sunny-"

“Oh, sweet Dawn, I was just having a giggle!” The redhead batted bright eyes at her, eyes that Bog noted were the same shade of green as the King’s. “We’re all happy for you, darling, truly. I admit, I used to think you were a few petals short of a full bloom when you moved out of the Palace to live in the Village, but what with all the changes here-!”

“Marianne’s told me all about the diplomacy,” Princess Dawn interjected. “Sunny and I are actually helping her, that’s why I was late –"

Melinda rolled her eyes. “Well, better you find what excuses you can to stay away from the Palace when those goblins are here,” she sniffed, her rosy lips making a little moue of disgust. “Truly, it’s one thing to know we’re doing business with them, but to  _see_  them here! And that King of theirs…!” She shivered dramatically, and Bog’s eyes narrowed.  _Watch yourself, chit._

Melinda tossed her hair again, reminding Bog of the Fairy King’s own annoying habit of twisting his front curl.  _Gods, what was it with fairies and hair?_   She then slid her eyes over to her King, and gave a slow, almost sultry smile. “Honestly, it makes one thankful that the Fairy Kingdom can be so rightfully proud of  _our_  King’s looks.”

Bog gave a snarl, feeling his anger mount, stuck there watching them bitterly from the dark like the monstrous beast everyone so obviously knew him to be as King Roland gave a laugh, every bit of him seeming to gleam. His eyes returned Melinda’s gaze, wandering over her form in a manner that was almost predatory, his drawl almost a purr. “Melinda, you’re sweeter than honeysuckle with your compliments. A King couldn’t ask for a lovelier subject, sugar.”

Melinda gave a trill of a laugh, fluttering her eyes at him. “I simply speak the truth, Sire.” She turned back to Princess Dawn. “Really, though, goblins at court? It’s amazing what will be tolerated in polite company these days.”

“The Fairy Kingdom has had far worse at court at the behest of its King.”

Queen Marianne’s voice cut through the conversation like a blade, cold and sharp and making the group still, pausing to look at her. Bog stared as well. It was the first she had spoken since the redhead had joined, and…

Her fists were clenched, the delicate bands crawling across her wrists at odds with her white knuckles. Every line of her was taut and sharp, her jaw clenched, her whole form looking very close to shaking with some kind of white-hot emotion, and her eyes…he had thought they had burned during her outburst at the Council meeting, but now they were bright and hard and cold as jewels -

Something had made her angry. Deeply so, in a way that made Bog feel not delight but a sharp concern.  _What had…?_

There was an uncomfortable pause that Bog couldn’t understand, the silence thickening painfully. Melinda flushed a bright and splotchy red under her Queen’s gaze before looking away and giving a slight cough. Princess Dawn looked desperately confused and concerned, opening her mouth before King Roland gave a slightly pained chuckle. “Uh, Marianne, sweetheart, perhaps you need to –"

“Yes, of course,” the Queen said, still so sharp and cool, her fists beginning to twist into her skirts. “Please excuse me, my headache has spontaneously come back.”

She turned on her heel and stalked away, her skirts swishing and her stride long, her profile a sharp and murderous thing. The fairies in front of her quickly got out of her way, stumbling over themselves in their haste. Princess Dawn went to follow after her sister, her large eyes wider still with concern, before King Roland looped an arm around her waist and began chattering away as he tugged her along, clearly trying to distract her.

Meanwhile, Bog’s eyes stayed fixed on Queen Marianne as she disappeared through the heavy doors, closing them with a soft  _bang_.

He should not follow her.

He absolutely should not follow her.

If anyone saw him head after their Queen, the worst assumptions would be jumped to, accusations of attempted kidnapping, stalking, murder –

But –

 _What_  had made her so livid,  _what_  had caused her rage, her anger not the glorious burning thing he had seen before but a cold snap of fury, bitter and chilling and terrifying,  _what –?_

Bog faltered, torn. Whatever had made her so livid, if there was a chance she could hurt herself –

_\- his claws dripping with blood from the shattered shards of the mirror, blue eyes glaring back at him from the cracked glass, red and agonized, rage and misery twisting his already hideous features –_

\- he had to make sure she didn’t.

Bog didn’t think as he pushed away from his corner, quickly and quietly stalking along the edge of the ballroom. The crowd was still intent on dancing and music and having an utterly splendid time, and no one noticed as the King of the Dark Forest silently slipped through the doors into the shadows of the vast hall.

Bog quickly looked around and caught, by mere chance, the faint flash of iridescent violet of the Queen’s wings in the dim moonlight that came in through the tall, arching windows of the hall. Taking care to keep the thrum of his wings quiet, Bog flew after her, keeping enough distance between them to remain undiscovered.

He followed her through the twists and turns of the halls, hoping to himself that she wouldn’t take him too far into the Palace, if he were to find his way back. The darkness didn’t bother him, it was being out of his element that did. He still hadn’t learned the lay of the Palace that well, only the hall to the Chamber of the Council and now the Ballroom. But his worry pushed him on, made him continue to follow her steps, watching her wings twitch like his did when he was in a foul mood.  _What had angered her so?_

The Queen stopped suddenly, pausing by one of the tall, graceful pillars that lined the hall. Bog quickly hid behind one, feeling like the perfect mix between a fool and a cad for how furtive he was acting. If he wanted to bloody know how she was, why not simply  _ask_  her when she returned to the party? Though would she return? She had seemed so intent to get away, what if –

A panting sound brought Bog out of his increasingly frenzied worries, and he peered around his pillar, a sharp twist of unease going through him.

Queen Marianne was pacing, her turns short and sharp, her face still looking positively dangerous, eyes still burning. She crossed her arms in front of her, balling up a hand into a fist, clenching and unclenching her fingers. Her breath was getting sharper, louder, her steps harder. She spun on her heel once more, turning her back to Bog, when suddenly she punched the pillar by her,  _hard._

The crack of her fist against the smooth stone rang in the hall, the power of the blow echoing. Bog jerked back, grimacing. Hells, with her thin hide, that  _must_ have hurt –

Queen Marianne slowly looked at her hand, still curled in a fist against pillar, the skin of her knuckles scraped red and rough, her bracelet glittering in the half-light. She seemed to have stopped breathing.

Then she burst into tears.

If the punch had surprised Bog, the sight of her crying utterly winded him. He could only gape, stunned, as Queen Marianne crumpled against the pillar, her legs buckling, and covered her face with her hands as if trying to hide as she sobbed her heart out, ragged and raw.

Still reeling at the sight of the fierce young Queen clinging to the pillar as desperately as if it were a lifeline, her misery so great it made her fold to the floor, Bog looked away, his shock unable to banish the burn of shame he felt. He shouldn’t – he shouldn’t be seeing this, this was far too – her pain was not for him to witness, if she knew he was here,  _he shouldn’t_  –

He frantically thought back on what had happened in the Ballroom, desperately trying to think of something,  _anything,_  that would give him a clue as to what had made her feel such rage, provoke such pain –

The group had been talking; the King had been making a right ass of himself, that was nothing new – then –

Then the redheaded wench had joined them –

Bog paused, eyes narrowing. She had joined them after King Roland had called her over –

Her bright green eyes on King Roland, her smile provocative, her tone coquettish -  _“Honestly, it makes one thankful that the Fairy Kingdom can be so rightfully proud of our King’s looks”_  – King Roland eyeing her, gaze blatant and greedy as it traveled across her body, his own voice shamelessly seductive –  _“A King couldn’t ask for a lovelier subject”_ \- she hadn’t been angry until the redhead had joined –  _“The Fairy Kingdom has had far worse at court at the behest of its King”–_

The realization hit him like a blow, stunning him.  _Oh bloody hells, he - they had – he had actually –!_

Livid rage flooded Bog, hot and smothering, and his claws raked grooves into the stone of the pillar.  _That **bastard.**_

Nearly snarling with fury, Bog was about to take to the air and confront that faithless, spineless,  _back-stabbing disloyal craven adulterous son of a –_

But then Queen Marianne’s weeping broke through the murderous haze, bringing him back, and he paused, panting after the sheer force of his rage, her soft sobs sinking in…

Desperate sympathy tore through him.  _Gods, the poor girl._  To have that happen right in front of her, to know that he was – her own King,  _her own King had done that to her!_ And for someone so naturally fierce and proud, the agony of such humiliation, to be confronted with it – gods, her  _husband_ , the man with whom she shared a Kingdom, had sworn her heart to – how it must have  _shattered_  when she had first realized -

Bog looked at where she sat on the floor, her knees drawn up, her sobs muffled into the skirt of her dress, and ached to comfort her, someway, somehow.  _You’re not alone. I know all about getting your heart broken._

He started to take a faltering step forward, one hand hesitantly reaching out of the shadows –

_Like she would welcome comfort from a beast like you._

Bog flinched at the poisonous voice that he recognized all too well, recoiling from the harsh truth it spoke. He couldn’t, he shouldn’t have – it was foolish, to think that she would want  _anyone_  to see her like this, never mind the Goblin she had tried so hard to be collected in front of – the intention was good yes, but –  _naive, impetuous, never thinking things through_  -

His claws curled back into the darkness, clenching into a helpless fist at his side, and Bog looked away from her, caught between self-recrimination for his foolishness and the frustrated desire to help, and he growled out a groan–

Queen Marianne’s head shot up, the tracks of her tears glimmering silver in the faint moonlight, her eyes wide and red and wet. She hastily wiped fingers across her cheeks, sniffling, even as her body went as tense as a spider sensing a tremor in its web. “Is someone there?”

Bog froze before quickly pressing himself against his pillar, even as he berated himself for the sheer ridiculousness of the action.  _Like it would bloody help if she decided to look -!_

He held his breath, his heart hammering as he surreptitiously looked around the pillar, watching her warily peer down the hall, tears still dripping down her fair cheeks.  _Gods,_  if she found him, knew that he had witnessed such a painful loss of control…

Bog suddenly flashed back to that horrible day, how  _he_  would have reacted if someone had seen –

He grit his teeth and closed his eyes. Damn his hide, he had thought the party was agonizing,  _this_  was an entirely different level of hell -

Thankfully, for once in his miserable life, luck favored Bog. Queen Marianne gave another sniff and passed a hand over her face before giving a weary, weak exhale. She pushed herself off the floor, swaying a bit as she stood. She ran her hands over her dress, smoothing her skirts before combing her fingers through her hair. When they brushed against her crown, which had become faintly lopsided in her grief, she paused, before plucking it off her head and holding it in front of her. Her dark eyes seemed to study it, tracing over the burnished gold, the sparkling purple jewels inlaid in it, her long fingers cradling it so easily. She gave a sudden, sour snort.

“Too bad we’re a package deal, huh?” Bog heard her mutter dryly, her voice still slightly thick from her tears.

Bog’s brow creased, utterly baffled by such a statement, but he was unable to do anything else but watch her sigh and place the crown upon her head once more. She then straightened her spine and proceeded down the lonely, dark hall, wrapping her arms around herself.

There was no desire to follow her now. He had intruded enough tonight. Let her have the comfort and privacy of darkness, he knew it well enough to hope it offered her the same balm.  

She had disappeared well from view before Bog finally let himself come out from behind the pillar, glancing down the hall once more to make sure she had gone before giving a hard sigh. He cracked his neck and scratched a claw at the back of his head, feeling utterly lost.

_He had no idea…_

He suddenly remembered his first impression of her, receiving that letter, reading over her earnest words.  _“_ _Never had any trouble or pain cross her path, most like.”_

Bog closed his eyes, guilt burning at him. Gods, what an ass he had been. To think he had thought all her cutting glances and terse words to that  _cur_ the result of mere quarrels…

Looking once more down the hall, the image of her anguished face still searing at his eyes and her broken sounds of suffering echoing in his ears, Bog took to the air and flew back to the Ballroom, lost to his thoughts. The already sharp line of his mouth grew grimmer still as he reflected on the true fate of the Fairy Queen. To be trapped in such a union, to bear that humiliation and pain with such fierce dignity, all for her Kingdom, holding the shards of her life so desperately together, even as they cut her raw…

Trouble and pain did far more than cross Queen Marianne’s path.

She kept company with it every single day and went to bed with it every single night.

* * *

“Bog King!” King Roland waved to him across the room, his grin broad. The crowd had lessened, but the Fairy King still looked as bright and energetic as ever, full of his easy charm. “So you  _did_  decide to come! Marianne shall be so pleased –"

“I’m leaving,” Bog said flatly.   

The Fairy King paused in his approach at that, his eyes boggling. “L-leaving? But – didn’t you just get here?”

If it had been under different circumstances, Bog would have enjoyed the sight, but now all he felt was an overwhelming urge to claw those bright eyes out, knock several of those shining teeth away from that unceasing, infuriating smile. “I arrived at the start of the party, as requested,” Bog replied, a cold, new bite to his voice. “You’d have noticed that if you were attending to your guests.”  _Not chasing after some trollop and making your Queen cry._

King Roland sputtered in confused outrage, and Bog felt his claws twitch as if they were coming alive with the desire to sink into something, tear and wreak and slice and -  _yes,_  best if he left, the sooner the better, prevent any chance that he would fall back into his old  _impetuous_ ways and maim the adulterous scum -

He shook his head and continued. “Urgent news from my Kingdom has arrived, it’s imperative that I go back to the Forest as soon as I can.” Bog’s voice was cold and professional, the lie falling smoothly off of his tongue. “I already met with Queen Marianne earlier - she is aware I paid homage. I’ll be back for the next Council meeting come next week.” Business thus concluded, Bog turned and left the Fairy King to gape after him.

“Now hey,  _wait a minute -!_  I mean, um, your majesty,” King Roland actually jogged after him, having to move quickly to match Bog’s strides, his manner shifting from petulant commands to easy charm. “Now, uh, I know we talked about it before, but, I was hoping to discuss trading weapons with you, man to – errr, well, King to King, ya know?” He gave a chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, what Marianne doesn’t know won’t hurt her none –"

 _I know how bloody well you believe that, you faithless lout._  Bog’s sharp eyes grew colder still as he fixed his merciless gaze on the Fairy King, whose charming smile withered and died like a frost snapped vine. When Bog spoke, his tone was scathing. “Perhaps I remain unfamiliar with the ways of the Fairy Kingdom, but in the Dark Forest,  _Kings respect their Queens.”_  

He practically bit into the words, his rage simmering only just below whatever calm he had miraculously managed to keep. Gods, he had disdained the bugger before, held him in casual contempt, but  _now_ – this was something else, something far more dangerous, an anger fueled by concern –

_She had looked so utterly **broken** –_

He spared the gaping ruler a curt nod before striding, not caring if his double meaning was clear or not. He couldn’t abide this place for one more moment, with its bright lies, its hollow shine masking the twisted and rotten core –

He saw Stuff and Thang lolling under a table, still working away on their platter of food. “We’re leaving,” he called out irritably, snapping a claw at them and gesturing sharply to the doors with his scepter. They immediately snapped into action, Stuff’s cheeks full of fruit and Thang desperately trying to balance his own bounty in a one armed grip as they scrambled after him. Rolling his eyes, Bog made his way to the doors; reaching out a claw to wrench them open, ready to be rid of this party, this entire evening –

The door suddenly pulled open, revealing Queen Marianne, who gave a start of surprise, her eyes still faintly red as they widened. “ _Oh!_  Bog King, I’m – I’m so sorry, I–"

“You needn’t be,” Bog reassured her hastily, though his own heart had given a sharp jolt at the sight of her, remembering how she had been only a few moments earlier. Crumpled to the floor in her finery, young and possessing the might of a Kingdom and yet utterly without power in her vast pain –  _just as he_  –

Queen Marianne made a distracted little hum, her fingers fluttering at her wrists, her eyes darting down. “Yes, well…um, still, I apologize. I was actually coming to find you, I don’t think that I can introduce you to Dawn tonight, I hope that isn’t too –"

“I have to leave anyways,” Bog said, almost tripping over the words in his haste. He wasn’t about to rob her of an escape. “There’s – uh – something happened. At the Forest. So, I, should, um, I mean, I’d best leave anyway –" Bog mentally cursed himself as he stumbled through the lie that had come so smoothly with the King.

She looked at him then, concerned. “Is everything alright?”

“Fine! Everything is fine,” he assured her, refusing to let guilt at lying to her break through, never mind the incredible fact that she was actually truly concerned in the midst of her own misery. “Just…best if I leave.”

She nodded slowly, still looking wary. “Of course, if your Kingdom needs you…”

 _The Kingdom always comes first_. Such a fact had been woven into Bog’s world since childhood, one of the many truths he would hold to when it was his turn to rule. She had undoubtedly heeded the same advice, kept such a vow sacred.  _But at what cost to her dignity, her happiness, her heart? To keep faithfulness to a Kingdom with a King as hollow and brittle as his accursed armor -_  

The normally brilliant hazel of her eyes, so quick to catch the light and flash with emotion, were now dimmed with the remnants of grief. The words were out of him before Bog had even realized he had thought them. “Are you alright?”  

Hells, what was the matter with him,  _was she alright_ , surrounded as she was by smiling lies and forced to bear witness to them, miserable and silent,  ** _was she alright_** ,  _what did he bloody think_ ,  _gods damn him_  –

She gazed at him, her lips parting and her eyes slowly wandering over his face, and when she spoke, her voice was softer, almost surprised. “I…” she stopped and then rubbed at one of her bracelets before continuing more briskly. “I’m fine, I’m just…feeling rather ill. Bit of a headache. I should leave, go lie down.”

Bog nodded, knowing it was not her head that was hurting. “Aye. Um, I best be going too.”  _So I don’t throttle your King._

She nodded, her expression neutral but her eyes dark with something that had painful worry shoot through him. “Well…goodnight.”

 _When the night wasn’t a good one at all._  Bog wished he could do something, say something that would help, but…

He sighed, and inclined his head to her. “Goodnight.” Now he was telling lies. He swore to himself then and there that it would be the last one he would ever tell her.

He stepped around her, opening the doors, noticing out of the corner of his eye that her arms were once again winding around herself as she looked out over the party. Bog’s jaw tightened as he held the door open for Stuff and Thang, before he let it close, the soft  _bam_  echoing in the dark hall.

Thang looked at Stuff curiously. “Did we forget to check on of the pond scum issue before we left? Is that why we’re leaving?”

Stuff shrugged, seeds in her teeth. “Maybe Brutus brought back another bat. Remember the mess the last one made in the Throne Room?”

 _“I just wanted to bloody leave,”_  Bog snarled. He jabbed his scepter down the hall to one of the many balconies the Palace had, where their steeds waited. “Here’s an order from your King – mount up and keep bloody quiet until we get back home.  _Can ye bloody well follow that?”_

They frantically nodded, familiar enough with their King’s various tones to know that now was  _not_  the time for questions, and raced down the hall.

Bog watched them go, his fierce glower dropping into a softer grimace before he made his way down the way, walking so as to have more time to reflect. It would be another week until the next Council meeting, he had no way of knowing how she would be until then, if she would need –

Bog stopped, surprise washing over him. He couldn’t remember a time when he had ever acted so… _protective_  toward someone. To a  _Fairy_ , of all things, and just after one evening…

An evening that had opened his eyes to the misery behind the cool mask that was her only way to keep her dignity, her only triumph over that fool of a King…

An evening where he had seen her escape her own people to find refuge in shadow and silence…

An evening where the titles of  _Fairy_  and  _Queen_  had melted into meaninglessness, and there was only a young woman trapped in a sham of a union, suffocating power heavy upon her head, crying herself raw under moonlight…

The memory of another young ruler suffering his heartbreak alone in the darkness tried to surface, but Bog brutally pushed it away, gripping his scepter tighter.  

He had survived whatever pain was in his past. He had to believe that she could do the same, that her natural ferocity and capability would come through, that she could fend for herself. He  _had_  to believe that.

But…if the need ever arose…

Bog thought back to the silvery track of her tears and the shine of the glossy flaxen locks of the King, and bared his teeth in a silent snarl.  _Keep watch and wait._  Another lesson of his youth that had only proven more and more valuable as time went on.

Well then…so be it. He would keep watch for her, as her own King had proven utterly useless in that regard. Besides, goblins were naturally fierce protectors, nothing strange about it. One ruler looking out for another…

And if it was  _strange_  and  _odd_  and  _different_  for a Goblin to look after a Fairy, well…

Bog had always had an inclination for  _different_  anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to provide a link to how I envisioned Marianne's ball gown in this chapter: http://suzie-guru.tumblr.com/post/124429874573/minor-spoiler-for-chapter-4-of-my-fanfic-between


	6. Chapter Five

**_Chapter Five_  **

 

Early mornings in the Dark Forest were often shadowy things, the rosy light of the dawning sun only just able to pierce through the dense foliage of the trees. The cries of birds, the rustle of leaves, and the sounds of creatures returning to their dens after a long night of prowling and hunting rendered it far from silent, but it was still calm, the noises weaving together in a quiet thrum, comforting and known. The perfect time to quietly work.

Or it would have been, if Bog could get his mother to be  _quiet_.

“So how’s this plant thing gonna work? ‘Cause I’m not too sure them fairies would want the flytraps mixin’ in with their freesia, call me crazy –"

Bog tried not to growl, his mouth full of blackberry.  _“I told you,_  it would be just for the food bearing ones –"

Griselda pursed her lips thoughtfully, nursing her usual mug of peat moss-tea. “Which we don’t have much of –"

“Exactly.” Bog swallowed his breakfast and looked down at the documents spread out on the table, checking to see if any juice had spattered on them. He knew it wasn’t the best policy to bring them to the dining table, but he preferred to blame his mother peppering him with questions while he ate. Besides, he  _needed_  to work. “They’re looking for new medicines and healing herbs, and we need a wider range of food. A trade seems best until we can be certain either of our soils could support the others plants.”

Griselda nodded. “Sounds good. But if they’re gonna go foraging for healing herbs, ya need to warn them about the poisons here –"

Bog waved a dismissive claw. “I’ll send a guide with them.”

Griselda snorted. “Better make sure that guide ain’t gonna do anything dumb like try and lead them into danger –"

“They wouldn’t dare go against their King,” Bog growled. “And I’ve already gotten someone for the job. Senna has always been in favor of opening the Border, she was eager to help.”

“Senna?” Griselda put down her mug, surprised. “Senna, as in married to Sumac, one of the Elders?”

Bog nodded, his eyes back on his papers, a hint of a smile lurking at his mouth. “The one who happens to hold the most influence over the other Elders? Aye.”

“Who, despite being a seriously nasty piece of work, is as meek as a mouse when it comes to his beloved wife.” Griselda’s smile was smug as she regarded her son. “Clever, honey. Just as devious as your father. I knew I raised a smart boy…”

Bog smirked back at her. “Love weakens even the strongest. If it has to exist, I might as well use it to my advantage.” Griselda frowned at that, never happy to hear her boy speak so dismissively of Love, but Bog easily ignored her, looking down at his papers and sighing. “Now I just need to bloody think of a way to handle this oaf’s petition for weapons –"

Griselda groaned in disbelief, knowing full well whom her son was talking about. By now, she had borne witness to many of Bog’s scathing diatribes concerning King Roland. “For heaven’s sakes,  _he’s still at that?!_  Gotta give that numbskull credit, though, he don’t lack for determination-"

“Nor do I,” Bog growled. “Though  _his_  is sheer thick-headedness –"

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound like you at all,” Griselda snorted. She then pointed her spoon at him as he sprawled in his chair. “Feet off the table, honey.”

Bog glowered. “I’m not a child, Mother, I can -”

“Oh, that’s even better, he’s a full grown Goblin and he stills puts his dirty feet on the table! If only that was the worst of it,” Griselda tutted and stirred her tea before she arched a brow at him, looking distinctly unimpressed. “Boggy, I swear, you sit like a floozy sometimes.”

_“Mother!”_

 “Got that trait from your dad too. I used to think it was him flirting with me but then I finally realized,  _Nah, that’s just how he sits_  –"

 _“MA!”_  It was a good thing Bog had finished eating, the chance of him choking on his food would have been a distinct possibility. He quickly tried to draw her attention to something else and jabbed a claw at the letter the King had sent him, signed with an annoyingly extravagant flourish. “ _How_  am I going to stop him from asking about the weapons?”

Griselda swilled her tea, drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the table. “First he wanted a trade, yeah?”

“A surrender.” Bog’s hackles rose at the memory. “As a  _show of good faith.”_

Griselda scowled. “Jerk.” She tapped her lip, pondering. “Maybe he just wants to see the goods? You wouldn’t have to do an outright trade, but if there was a presentation made for both Kingdoms’ weapons, he might stop pestering ya once he sees what you’ve actually got.”

Bog leaned back in his chair, considering her words. There was the danger of stoking the fools’ desire, but there was also the fact that Bog could still keep his best weapons away from those greedy, bright eyes…

He nodded slowly. “It’s an idea…I would have to see if Queen Marianne would be amiable to it. ”

Griselda leaned her chin on her fist, her beady eyes bright. “Ya like her, don’t ya?”

Bog had pushed his plate away, gathering up the documents, already planning on writing Queen an enquiry before his mother’s words sank in. “What?”

“I said, ya like her, don’t ya? She’s the one you talk about the most, and you never complain about  _her_.” Griselda smiled. “She impressed ya after all, didn’t she?”

Bog scowled and shrugged a shoulder, not sure why he was feeling awkward. “She…she surprised me. We both want this to work –"

“And she reminds ya of yourself when you were younger, right?” Griselda’s tone was sly but warm.

Bog was about to sneer back a retort when he suddenly flashed back to a darkened hallway, moonlight falling down on a crumpled figure whose sobs shook her body, the burden of her crown and the lie of her marriage pressing down on her as he had watched from the shadows, wanting to help in some way, any way…

_Young and heartbroken and the weight of a Kingdom on her._

He looked away from his mother’s gaze, knowing it wouldn’t do to have her gauge his true thoughts. “In some ways…aye, she does.” Bog admitted, his voice softer. He saw the faintly smug look of triumph on his mother’s face and dropped back into a scowl. “That doesn’t mean I  _like_ her,” he said, a faint edge of petulance to his voice. “I don’t like anyone.”

Griselda gave a loud cackle. “ _Ha!_  ‘Course ya don’t! You’re such a brat sometimes, ya know that?”

“I’m the King!”

“Who’s a brat,” Griselda snorted. “The Brat King, how’s that for a title?”

Bog strode away from the table, wings twitching irritably. “I’m  _leaving_ –"

“You know what you should think about? Jewelry.”

_“…What?”_

“For trading, silly.” Griselda sipped her tea, before wiping her mouth and pointing a finger at him. “Fairies like that kind of thing. We have amber, and we can probably get those old mining shafts open again, see what we can find there. They could make a bunch of little things from the stuff we find! Or we could make them, ya know how crafty I am-"

“The amber is precious to the Forest,” Bog said heatedly. “It’s reserved for royalty alone –“

“So give it to the royals of the Fairy Kingdom as a sign of respect,” Griselda interrupted, rolling her eyes at him. “I’m telling ya, fairies like that stuff. Give a little somethin’ to their Queen, since you’re getting along so well. Besides, the amber is just layin’ around here, we sure ain’t using it for anything –"

Bog held up a claw, the gesture both pleading and pacifying. “I’ll think about it. But if I’m going to arrange a showing of the weapons, the sooner I write that note to Queen Marianne, the better –"

Griselda waved a hand at him, but a grin was on her face. “Do what ya need to do. But before ya go, can ya admit to yer dear old Mother that she was right about the whole diplomacy thing working out?”

Bog rolled his eyes and sighed. He hated when she did this. But if he indulged her now, then he could get on with his work. “Aye, alright.”

“Alright what?”

_“Ye were right.”_

“So ya can admit that I know what I’m talkin’ about from time to time?”  

Bog grit his teeth. “ _Fine.”_

Griselda beamed in a way that immediately set Bog’s scales itching in unease. “I’m happy to hear ya say that, honey, ‘cause now maybe ya can meet with some of those nice girls I’ve been findin’ ya! In fact -” She turned back to the main door of the dining room and bellowed over her shoulder, “YA CAN COME IN HERE, NOW, JUST KEEP TO THE SHADOWS!” She turned back, still grinning. “I just  _know_  ya will get along just fine with -"

But Bog, no stranger to his mother’s diabolical determination when it came to matchmaking, had fled the room in a rattle of wings and scales and desperation.

Griselda’s smile dropped like a dead fly, and she sighed crossly. “Damn that boy for inheritin’ his father’s wings.”

* * *

Despite his anger at her for springing yet another suitor at him, Bog heeded his mother’s advice, and in a few days time, there was an agreement to a display of the both Kingdoms weapons. Bog had no interest in what King Roland had to offer, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to have this be fair. 

While still hesitant over any mention of warfare, Queen Marianne obviously knew it was their best chance to silence her King’s infatuation with the idea of building up his army.  _“Perhaps if there’s enough reflective surfaces, Roland will be too distracted to ask after anything else,”_  her postscript read.

Bog had had to hastily turn his laughter into a hacking cough to divert any curious questions from his subjects. Gods, even when they were mere ink on paper, her words had a bite to them. Now, down in the armory, he read over the letter once more, a slant of a smile to his mouth, the faint flowery smell that drifted up from the parchment no longer bothering him as it once did. He was relatively sure it was the perfume the Queen wore, and amused himself by imagining her, sweet smelling and soft skinned, carving out her flinty words into paper, her eyes sparkling with fire and grit.

Bog’s smile faded a bit, lowering the letter. Words on paper were one thing. To actually be able to see how she was, that was another thing entirely…

Though the Council meetings had continued after that wretched Ball, he still couldn’t shake the image of her, crumpled to the floor, surrounded by darkness and misery.  The fact that he hadn’t much time to converse with the young Queen outside of the meetings hadn’t helped assuage his unease. She continued to wear her cool guise of professionalism and elegance, and no one but he seemed the wiser to what it hid, what a darkened hallway had revealed to him…

Thinking back on it now, Bog was torn between the certainty that he would have done something rash in his anger to the Fairy King and something that felt suspiciously like guilt at his retreat that night. He had left her…

Bog scowled, his claws pricking at the letter’s parchment. As much as he tried to tell himself it wasn’t his place, that he couldn’t interfere, shouldn’t allow himself to be so – protective? – concerned? –  _worried_ for her…

…He was.

It was foolish, desperately so, let himself get in such a state, particularly when they truly barely knew each other. He was merely the creature with whom she was brokering new trade and peace, that was all. Two rulers working together for the sake of their kingdoms. Beyond that, it was best to keep to themselves. He was a Goblin, she was a Fairy –

\- a Fairy who knew heartbreak as well as he did…

Bog paused, before sighing long and hard, folding the letter and placing it aside to focus on the weapons in front of him. That was the heart of it, wasn’t it? Even knowing it would only invite trouble…he knew that particular pain too well for him to not be concerned for her. And if she had been alone with that pain, that misery, for so long…

_You’re one to talk. Fourteen years since that Fateful Day, isn’t it?_

Bog scowled and did his best to ignore the poisonous old voice that he had never managed to silence. This wasn’t about him -

_Isn’t about you? Of course it’s about you, you bloody well see yourself in her! In a blasted Fairy!_

Bog growled, teeth bared. So what if his mother was right? So what if he did see himself in her? Disregarding the sheer impossibility of such a thing, that a beast like  _him_  could see such darkness  _her_ …he had already made his decision.  

His self-sworn vow to look after her had been made in the heat of the moment when he had left the Ball, but he found he could not regret it. She needed an ally, even if it was only a silent one. If there remained enough distance, it would be fine.

Perhaps it was selfish of him, to want to aid her only after seeing their connection, one that she would never be aware of if he had his way. Or maybe that  _was_  normal. He had no bloody idea; it had been so long since he had let himself feel anything other than irritation and the cold stability of loneliness and routine…

Bog sighed and picked up a spear, a heavy and wicked looking thing, his claws flexing around the handle. This is why it was so much easier to simply  _not_  care.

No matter. He had other things to worry about.

He hefted the spear and let it balance in his grip, before throwing  _hard_  it at the wall of the armory with a deep grunt.

The weapon whistled as it flew through the air and pierced the rough wood with a sharp  ** _CRACK_** , embedding itself with deadly force and accuracy, shaking with the force of impact. Bog gave a satisfied, sharp-toothed grin, his eyes narrowing in rather malevolent anticipation.

Such as giving King Roland a proper demonstration of  _why_  his people deserved respect.

* * *

The cavernous hall buzzed with chatter, the noise amplified and rebounding off of the hewn rock walls as various soldiers and nobles of the Fairy Kingdom looked over the fearsome weapons the Bog King had brought, wide-eyed with fascination and horror. 

Muggon and Bloodwart and a few other goblins stood by the vast table where the goods had been lain, answering questions and handling the weapons for those who wanted to have a closer look.  Muggon looked over to where his King stood off to the side and gave him a small grimace, eyes almost pleading. 

Bog gave a glare and shook his head. If he had to be here, Muggon could bloody well tough it out too. They were the closest things Bog had to generals in his land, and as such were best suited for this task. But an actual sparring demonstration was out of the question, no matter how much goblins hated inaction. Even if it  _would_  relieve the bloody tedium…

It had quickly become apparent to Bog that the Fairy Kingdom’s military was unused to long-range weapons. Bog supposed it shouldn’t have surprised him, what with the advantage their wings undoubtedly gave them. Bog was the only Goblin he knew of that had wings, and even then, his scepter easily rivaled any staff or spear in its length. But the rest of the Dark Forest warriors were confined to the ground when they fought, unless they had dragonflies, and even then, they ran a risk of their steeds being injured in battle. For close range combat, they had fangs and claws defend themselves. Though some of those swords looked intriguing…

Bog caught himself and scowled, leaning back against the pillar he had claimed. No matter what, Bog would never let that oaf have his weapons. This display would be the furthest they would ever go, no matter if his interest  _was_  slightly piqued. Bog had no interest in gathering useless weapons for wars he was determined would never occur. Besides, any interest of his could be taken and twisted into a threat, he  _had_  to be wary.

He looked once more around the hall that served as the training area for the Fairy Army. Despite the ever-present shine, Bog was nonetheless reminded of the Combat Pits that the Dark Forest had, the walls lined with weapons and some dirt-floored sparring rings present as well. Both sights were oddly comforting to him. He might not have the taste for warfare, but combat and sparring was something else entirely. Gods, it had been ages since he had a good fight…

There was a burst of laughter, and Bog looked over to the table before groaning. King Roland had already been positively glowing in satisfaction over finally being able to see some weapons, and now held one of the javelins, thrusting it up for the crowd to see. Muggon looked distinctly irritated over such obvious manhandling, and Bog knew he wasn’t alone in the wish that the King’s arrogant carelessness would result in one of those bright eyes getting poked out.

The Fairy King winked at the crowd and then threw an arm around a willowy Fairy maiden, making a comment about her being free to  _“handle his weapon”._ The courtiers roared once more with laughter, and Bog just barely stopped himself from letting out a disgusted snarl. Gods, the ass truly had no shame. Shaking his head, he quickly looked around to see if she had seen –

But Queen Marianne was thankfully otherwise occupied, her eyes large and serious as she talked with the young Fairy who had been the first to express an interest in collecting new medicines. The young male – Hadrian, was it? - gestured to the weapons, his eyes looking earnest and worried, his Queen nodding at his words. Undoubtedly they feared such a display would lessen the support for their plans…

Bog watched her intently. Despite the small frown pulling at her mouth as she looked over the assortment of weapons, Queen Marianne appeared to be doing well. Though he had barely spoken to her today, having had to supervise the set up of the display, so there truly was no way of –

“Bog King!”

Bog repressed a sigh and turned to King Roland. “Aye?” He said somewhat warily.

King Roland held out his arms over the spread of weapons, his armor brighter than ever. “ _This_ is what I’m talking about,” he drawled, and gave a laugh that  the crowd quickly echoed. Bog gritted his teeth, a pounding tension already behind his skull. “You brought some wonderful little things! I must ask, is this the cream of the crop, so to speak?”

“These weapons are what all goblins use in battle,” Bog answered evenly, and he saw Muggon and Bloodwart give smirks at their ruler’s cleverness. Bog held back his own. It might be what all goblins used in battle, but whether or not they were the  _best_  they had to offer was something else. “As I said before, goblins don’t require the same weapons as fairies do.”

King Roland chuckled. “Ah, right, your natural defenses. Well, considering that disadvantage, I must say, I am impressed!”

Bog leveled a hard stare at him.  _“Disadvantage?”_

King Roland folded his arms, his smile complacent. “Well, I’ve gotta admit, after seeing them, it’s obvious they would need all the help they could get from weapons! Claws and fangs can only do so much when they can barely reach the other fellow’s shoulder!” He gestured carelessly to where Muggon and Bloodwart stood. “Little things, ain’t they? No wonder they used to attack as a group in the past. Why, it would hardly be fair to engage in one on one combat with ‘em!”

Muggon made a sudden move towards the King, his froggy face contorted with offended fury. Bloodwart quickly grabbed his shoulder to hold him back, his whisper to him a frantic growl. Bog could hardly pay them any mind, he was so incensed. There was  _nothing_  this fool would not say, was there? Really, he  _should_  bring Brutus one day, if only to see how the fluttering fools would shrink away in terror -

“Size is no determination of power,” Bog said, only just able to keep a snarl from overtaking his voice completely. A mad impulse seized him, his anger weakening his will. He nodded to the sword that hung at the Fairy King’s hip, his brogue noticeably thicker as he continued. “But, if ye’d rather not sully that precious blade against  _them_ , then by all means…” Bog gestured to himself mockingly. “Here I am. King against King. What do ye say?”

There was a shocked murmur from the crowd, and King Roland paused, those bright green eyes widening. He obviously hadn’t expected such a turn of events. “You… _you_  wanna fight?  _Here? Now?”_   

 _Rash_ , he was being rash and reckless,  _impetuous_  to the point of danger, they would think he was eager for a fight, any interest of his could be taken and twisted into a threat, he had to be wary –

But right now, anger thudding through him in a hot pulse, Bog  _was_  eager for a fight. Hells, at the very least, he’d get a good spar out of it–

Out of the corner of his eye, Bog saw Queen Marianne move forward, folding her arms and looking between the two Kings intently as she tucked herself against a pillar.    

Bog kept his eyes on King Roland and nodded. “Aye,” he said coolly. “This is a weapons demonstration, isn’t it? Bit foolish not to have a proper spar to best see the true strengths of them, wouldn’t ye say?”

King Roland looked a bit pale now, but he quickly put on another glittering smile for the crowd. “Why, of course! Nothing like a friendly little spar!” The crowd gave some shocked little gasps, which seemed to please him. Looking around at the worried faces of his subjects, King Roland sank once more into the comfort of showmanship and charm, sweeping a hand through his flaxen locks, giving a smooth chuckle. “My sword against your – thing –"

“ _Scepter_ ,” Bog gritted out.

“-Scepter, right. Let’s see which King can best handle their weapons, hmmm?” King Roland waved grandly to one of the sparring floors, his air confident and jaunty.

“The rules of combat will be followed,” Bog agreed, making his way down to the area. The fairies hastily backing away from his path, looking torn between excitement and fear. Muggon and Bloodwart motioned the other goblins back before edging closer, their own faces both eager and wary. Not for his safety, Bog was sure – no Fairy could best him in battle. But they knew the risk of this – if he harmed the dolt in any way –

But Bog knew his strengths, and for all his reckless anger, his control in sparring was masterful. It wasn’t arrogance, but a simple fact. No harm would befall King Roland.

Humiliation, however…

King Roland strutted into the ring, tossing his head and flaring his wings as he made his way to a corner. With a dramatic gesture, he suddenly unsheathed his sword and began a series of over-the-top stretches and stances, twirling his blade extravagantly, making his subjects coo and murmur in awed appreciation.

Bog watched the spectacle before allowing himself a quick eye roll. It appeared posing could be accepted as stretching in this realm. He merely cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders back and flexing his grip on his scepter, allowing the rough metal to warm under his touch.  _A weapon is as good as yer arm when it’s held by a true warrior_ , growled a voice from long ago.  _It’s part of ye, boy, th’ difference between steel an’ flesh an’ blade an’ bone be damned_  -

“The fight shall commence on my word,” King Roland called out, giving his sword one last flashing  _swish_  through the air before sinking into a stance, his sword up and mirroring his cheek. He gave a cocky grin. “No foul play, naturally.”

Bog merely went into his own stance, his face neutral and his eyes cool. “Naturally.”

A hush fell over the crowd as the rulers watched each other, King Roland tensed and gripping his sword like a club, Bog letting himself sink low into his stance, grounding himself. He breathed slow and calm, and smirked as the wait stretched and the crowd began to look uneasy. A classic move, to draw the wait out to provoke one’s opponent into doing something rash, letting their temper get the best of them, creating their own downfall. But he knew better –

_“GO!”_

The Fairy King lunged forward before he even finished his yell, swinging his blade down in a curving strike. Bog immediately swung his scepter up to meet it in hard counterstrike in a mighty  _CLANG_. He used the momentum of the blow to advance, his longer legs allowing him a deeper lunge.

King Roland nearly stumbled before grounding himself and aiming at Bog’s side. Bog easily evaded it and nearly snarled out a laugh. Oh gods, but it was  _good_ to fight again –

The ringing song of steel and force soon echoed through the chamber, and the crowd was swept into the spectacle, calling out encouragement to their King, gasping and cheering as he beat back the dark creature that had dared to challenge him. Not to be outdone, the goblins snarled out their approval each time their King dodged a hit and evaded a blow. 

Yet the spectators soon noticed that the almighty Bog King was merely performing defensive moves, and had yet to make a single hit. A mocking edge grew to the murmur of the crowd, hissing to one another like asps. Many a face already bore a triumphant certainty of who the victor would be. King Roland hadn’t scored a strike, true, but his grin grew large and complacent.

Just as Bog had wanted.

His initial and almost joyful jolt of adrenaline had faded, and he bit back his disappointment as he easily blocked the next blow of the Fairy King, his every stance giving his next move away. Bog repressed a bitter sigh. Gods, even a good spar was to be denied to him -

Credit be given where credit was due, King Roland had obviously trained in combat. The light flashed off his sword and glinted off of his armor as he dodged and struck out quickly, his speed adept if not nimble. He jumped this way and that, his wings flaring and fluttering to a distracting degree, his brow furrowing behind his precious crown.

But, Bog reflected between each parry and thrust, finding it quite easy to divide his attention, there was a difference between knowing how to fight and actually  _being_  a fighter.

And King Roland was no fighter.

At best, he was a performer who knew how fighters were  _supposed_  to move, mimicking the stances and adding his own grandiose twist to them like a child at play. No matter what, to fight took time and training, payment made in sweat and blood and tears. But the stone-cold fact was that one could train their whole life with a weapon, gain all the proficiency in the world, and  _still_  not be a natural. The trueborn grit and gift was only possessed by, his father had told him once, and it was to those few that the right to lead was bequeathed to.

 _“Only a born warrior,”_  the Gravener King had rasped, wiping away the blood that dripped from the cut his heir had scored on him, eyeing the stain of it on his claws with grim satisfaction, “ _can be a born King.”_

King Roland was good at playing the warrior. Bog simply  _was_  one.

And  _that_ , Bog reflected as the shadow of a smile crept past his stoic façade, was the difference that made a fight.

That, and letting an opponent’s arrogance build until it blinded them.

King Roland’s face was blatantly smug as Bog once more blocked another of his blows. He tossed his hair, turning so the crowd could get the full effect of his handsome profile, silhouetted to his best advantage. “Well, I’d say we  _all_ can see which King can  _truly_  handle his weapon–"

**_CRANG!_ **

The scepter hit the armored chest with withering impact, and King Roland’s head snapped back  _hard_  as he was knocked off his feet by the blow. Arching backward into the air, he hit the ground with a mighty  _clatter,_  sprawling and rolling several feet.

The boisterous cheers of the crowd abruptly died into shocked silence while the goblins merely grinned, fangs gleaming and eyes viciously proud.

Bog leaned on his scepter, deliberately casual. “Aye,” he agreed quite amiably. “I’d say we can.”

He watched King Roland get to his feet dazedly, his bright green eyes positively cross-eyed. The dust of the dirt floor dulled the usual glare of his armor, and his golden hair was disheveled, his crown lopsided. Out of the corner of his eye, Bog saw that Queen Marianne had moved away from her pillar, her eyes wide as the rest of the courtiers started whispering frantically.

Meanwhile, her King staggered slightly as he stood, groaning, before blinking groggily at Bog, who gave him small smirk before speaking once more. “A fair warm up, your highness.”

The still dazed eyes went wide.  _“Warm up?!”_

Bog nodded encouragingly, smothering an absolutely vicious grin of delighted retribution. Oh, now  _this_  was  _fun_. “Shall we begin the true spar?”

King Roland’s handsome face paled as he seemed to realize that he was practically panting, beads of sweat clinging to his strong brow, a grime collecting there as the dust clung to it. Meanwhile, the dark and dour King of the Dark Forest seemed utterly at ease, almost relaxed. His eyes darted to the crowd, who had begun once more to murmur. Only now there was a new note along with the apprehension – a surprised but honest admiration for his opponent. That smooth throat bobbed in a gulp. “I- _uh_ -well-"

Bog  _did_ smile then, and a taunt was barely kept behind his teeth. “Unless you’d prefer to forfeit?”

The Fairy King recoiled at that, the angry arrogance in his face twisting his fine features into something almost disgusting.  _“I would never forfeit to a -!”_

He hastily stopped and collected himself the best he could, throwing back his shoulders regally, the effect somewhat ruined by the still lopsided crown. “I mean – uh, by all means, let us continue.”  

Bog inclined his head, hoping he could hide how he was desperately trying not to laugh. “As ye wish.”

They fell into the fight once more, but oh, now the truth was out. This time Bog held nothing back, and felt almost cheerful when King Roland’s eyes widened with the realization that he had gravely overestimated the situation and his opponent.

Bog kept to his promise – the Fairy King would not be harmed. But he had age and strength and a lifetime of anger to fuel him, and the result was absolutely vicious. It was all that King Roland could do to block and parry and thrust as Bog struck and swung his scepter, his speed almost rendering the weapon a blur, the amber glittering fiercely with each thrust and stab.

All smugness in King Roland’s face had melted under pure panic, and he was now blatantly backing away from Bog, his bright eyes almost buggy in fear, his normally strong chin weak. He winced and recoiled with each harsh impact of the scepter against his sword, and his once showy moves were now choppy, rough with desperation.

Bog, meanwhile, had let his body take control, trusting his muscles to remember the burn of memory and countless hours of training. It was instinctual and primal, and his fighting was as smooth and natural as flying, each lunge and blow and strike committed and true and merciless. He had more than a few weeks worth of frustrated rage at this fool to work off, and this was serving him quite well in that regard –

It was recompense is for all those smug comments, the thoughtless condescension, the arrogant certainty of his superiority, the countless times of blasé ignorance,  _for that inane smile, that grating drawl, that idiotic thing he did with his hair, those glittering empty eyes –_

_For making her cry –_

Bog almost stumbled at the thought, it threw him so. He was – he hadn’t even started the match with the intent to – hells, was he actually fancying himself as some sort of  _champion?!_

Bog would have given the thought the sheer incredulousness it deserved when King Roland, spotting the pause in the barrage of blows, attempted to make a strike, his sword stabbing at Bog’s chest –

With lightning swiftness, Bog sidestepped out of the way and swung his weapon at the Fairy King’s back as the fool lunged past him. The resulting swat resounded with an echoing  _CLANG_  and sent the King unceremoniously planting face first into the dirt.

Bog glared down at him, glowering. Try to stab him through the heart?  _So much for no foul play._

The crowd erupted into cries of shock and alarm, concern for their King mixing with the sheer thrill of the obvious win. The goblins were not so torn. They cheered raucously, Muggon actually punching the air victoriously as he and Bloodwart howled out their approval of their King’s triumph. Bog smirked at them, his smile sharp edged and maliciously content.

But there was one who did not join in on the excited wave of chatter now crashing over the crowd. Queen Marianne stood silent and still against her pillar, her large eyes burning strangely in her face.

Eyes that were fixed on him.

Bog paused in the glow of his victory, becoming unsure. He had been so intent on working out his sheer contempt for the botfly that he had merely assumed that she would also revel in such a sight as well. Had…had he misjudged? Was her disdain for the adulterous scum trumped by her loyalty and pride in her Kingdom? Was she displeased that a Goblin should so thoroughly best a Fairy?

But then –

A small little tease of a smile crossed her lips, one that bloomed under his gaze as she saw him watching her watch him. It was genuine and sly and her eyes began to sparkle with a mischievous light, wicked mirth making the hazel glow. Oh, she  _knew_  what he had been doing.

And she had most assuredly enjoyed it.

Bog didn’t restrain his smirk and inclined his head slightly to her. She glanced away, her cheeks inexplicably flushed, and Bog looked down at the still prone figure on the dirt before him, who was now struggling to rise, coughing and wiping away dirt from his mouth.

Bog let the butt of his scepter hit the dirt near his head, and King Roland recoiled, before looking up at the Goblin who had utterly thrashed him, his handsome face caked with dirt and sweat, weary and dazed and wincing.

Bog raised an unimpressed brow. “Match?”

The Fairy King gave an almost pitiful moan as his head dropped to the floor once.  _“Just…this…once…”_

Bog gave a little grunt of disgust as the King’s three cronies ran to him, busy between shooting Bog poisonous looks and frantically pulling their monarch to his feet, dusting off his now dulled armor. “As ye wish.”

The dazed fool had enough wits about him to flush hot underneath his grime at the cool contempt in the King’s voice, and Bog gave a slight snort as he turned and walked away from the Fairy. An almost grim satisfaction went through him as he once again recalled his father’s words.  _Only a born warrior can be a born King._

Roland might have been hailed as the ruler of the Fairy Kingdom, and he may have worn his golden crown well. But, Bog reflected, both vindictive and sour in his certainty, he was no  _King_.

As he made his way through the crowd, Bog saw how they looked at him now. There was still distrust and fear and disgust, true enough, but now there was something else, something new.

Respect.

Though still tinged with fear, the admiration was there, regardless if it was grudging or not. Power, be it raw or honed, primal or polished, was one thing that both goblins and fairies held in esteem. And he, the grim and scaly-backed beast they had so loved to mutter about, had just shown he had it in spades. 

Bog bit down on his grin and settled for casually shouldering his scepter, his body still thrumming with the heat of the spar and his heart unexpectedly light as he signaled for his goblins to follow.  

Roland was no true King, a disappointing truth. But Bog, dark and hideous as he was, had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he most certainly  _was._  

* * *

Bog cracked his neck and groaned.  _This_  is what he got for not stretching before he gave that fool such a thrashing, satisfying as it had been. A sore shoulder and now nearly a platoon of Fairy Knights who wished to test their metal on him. 

After the sparring demonstration and witnessing the way in which the courtiers of the Fairy Kingdom had stared at him, Bog had assumed he could look forward to considerably less nasty mutters. What he  _hadn’t_ counted on was becoming some sort of rite of passage for some eager warrior to be. The day was barely out and Stuff and Thang and Muggon and Bloodwart had all been besieged with request upon request from young males who wanted to go a round with the dangerous King of the Dark Forest.

Bog rolled his eyes. And to think he had been worried about creating more fuel in which to feed the fire of bias against his people. Gods, he was bloody  _popular_  now. He shuddered, his scales rattling.

He had curtly answered in the negative to all of the requests – as if he had the leisure to assuage some young fools ambitions. If they were so eager to do battle with a Goblin, let them face Muggon or Bloodwart.

Bog’s frown soon became a smirk. He supposed it  _could_  be worse. He could have been utterly humiliated in front of his subjects and exposed for an arrogant fool.

Roland had only given the surliest of muttered  _“congratulations”_  before flying off in a huff, intent on licking his wounds and soothing of his pride, which undoubtedly bore as many dents as his armor now did. Bog grinned to himself – a harsh lesson, but one sorely needed. He doubted it would have lasting impact on the fool, but the dispensing of it had been undeniably enjoyable.  

But now he was ready to return to the Forest, and wanted to check on the weapons before his subjects packed them away. Making his way down the long stairway, he rolled his shoulder one more time, grousing and muttering to himself. It had been a long and unexpectedly eventful day, and after the sudden barrage of attention, he was more than just a bit eager to return to the silence and sanctity of home, already appreciative of not seeing any more battle hungry fairies.

He reached the landing and then froze.   

Someone had decided to come back for one last look at his weapons.

Queen Marianne braced her hands on the tabletop, long slender fingers gently drumming against it as she leaned over the spread, her expression thoughtful and curious. Yet her eyes were not on any of his weapons, but on the swords of her people. One hand reached out to hover over one, the tips of her fingers barely gracing the keen blade that shone with such bright and deadly beauty.

Bog quietly and carefully approached, watching her. He was tempted to hide behind a pillar, before rolling his eyes at himself.  _Once was enough_. He wasn’t about to fall into the habit of spying on her. It wasn’t like he was worried she was going to liberate some of his weapons –

Queen Marianne suddenly wrapped her hand around the hilt of one of the swords, hefting it with surprising ease. She let it rest in her hands, long and elegant, as if presenting it, the silvery light that refracted off of it bisecting her face with its bright glare. Her eyes were hooded as she studied the blade, an almost wistful look to them.

With sudden and surprising swiftness, she twisted her hand once more around the elegantly wrought grip and spun it smoothly, stepping away from the table.  Her body turned, the profile of her silhouetted. Her face was intent as she brought blade in front of her, strong and collected. She gently let one palm pass down the blade, steadying it as she breathed soft and slow, before lunging into an attack, the blade swinging out at an invisible foe, whistling as it sliced the air.

The skirt of her dress was full and long, but she seemed unhindered by it as she smoothly advanced and parried, her swings deep and strong, twirling the blade. Her breath quickening a bit from exertion, she gripped both hands to the handle and swung the blade back, turning on her heel to complete the vicious blow –

_CLANG._

Bog’s arm thrummed from reverberations of the impact of her sword on his scepter. “Best not to leave your back unguarded.”

Queen Marianne shrieked and dropped the blade. “ _God -!_  Oh my god,  _how long have you been –"_  Her cheeks burning bright red, she hastily bent to pick the sword up and glared at him. “You know,  _might_  not be the best idea to surprise someone with a sword!”

Bog grimaced, hastily drawing back. “I – apologies, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just –“ He paused, floundering. What  _had_  he been thinking?

Queen Marianne passed a hand through her locks, still looking shaky. “God, I thought I was alone, I would have never –"

“I was coming back to check on the weapons, I didn’t mean to –"

They looked at each other, both anxious and grasping for words. Bog felt a hot flush of something that could have been humiliation burn up his neck. He scratched at it with his claws and very nearly cursed. Hells,  _what had he thought he was doing_ –

Queen Marianne cleared her throat, obviously trying to recover. “Well, uh – all your weapons are present, I think. If you were worried about some fairies getting overeager to try some.” She looked down at the table and gave him a slightly rueful smile. “I hope you don’t think I would have –"

“Not you,” Bog assured her. “Your husband, perhaps. I would never -”

Queen Marianne’s laugh cut him off, the most honest one he had heard from her yet. “I wouldn’t put it past him, but I doubt that Roland is going to want to look at  _any_  weapon for at least a month after today.” The smile she gave him was almost a grin. “I don’t think anyone was expecting  _that_ , least of all him.”

Bog shrugged a shoulder, ignoring the surprising feeling of bashfulness that curled through him, and his lips twitched despite himself. “If he can’t bear to look at the weapons, then…I suppose we’d be spared any more talk about requesting new supplies for his army –"

“How very devious of you,” Queen Marianne said, and now her smile verged on a smirk.

Bog returned it. “I try.” He looked down at the table again, the easy warmth that their banter brought him suddenly cooling as he remembered his old concerns. “I…I hope no trouble will be brought to the diplomacy. I simply could not let him continue insulting my people –“

“He’ll sulk and moan, but if he knows what’s good for him, that’s all he’ll do,” Queen Marianne assured him, some steel in her voice. “Roland never gets challenged like that, and believe me, he ought to. He’s not gonna forget that, but he’s too cowardly to try anything else.” Her eyes were at once both bold and shy as she looked at him. “In fact, I think it’s safe to say  _no one_  is going to forget that. That was…that was something else.” She looked down, her cheeks pinking for some reason.

Bog shrugged his shoulder, before grimacing slightly as it twinged in retaliation. “It was simply a spar –"

“It was  _amazing,”_  she said earnestly, the amber of her gaze glinting with sincerity. “I mean – I knew that you fought,  _fight_ , obviously. I know that’s what goblins do, and since you’re their King - but – I’ve never seen  _anything_ like  _that -_ ”

She paused, seeming to realize that she was rambling, and tucked a hair behind her ear with her free hand self-consciously, her other hand picking at the pale apricot rose petals that made her skirt. “It was a good thing that it was just a sparring session. If you ever truly wanted to hurt someone…well, let’s just say, Roland’s lucky to escape with only his pride injured.”

Bog looked away, torn between the undeniable small flame of pleasure her praise had lit in him, and embarrassment. Unsure of how to respond, he decided on evasive truth. “I had no intention of injuring him.”

Queen Marianne flinched. “Of course, I hadn’t meant to imply –"

“ _Humiliating_  him, however…” Bog said dryly, his eyes just a bit sly as he looked over at her.

Queen Marianne stared at him before her mouth began twitching. She quickly smothered it with her hand, looking away, but he could see her shoulders begin to shake. “Well,” she said, coughing a bit, “I think you might have succeeded with that.” She met his eyes, and her gaze was once more full of that mischievous mirth. “But weren’t you worried he would harm you? I saw he went for your chest –"  

Bog shrugged, casually arrogant. “A Goblin has nothing to fear from a Fairy.”

She paused at that, her eyebrows arching. “…Oh? And why is that?”

Oh,  _hells_. Bog opened his mouth, trying to come up with the right answer, suddenly very aware that she was both a Fairy and still possessed a sword. “I – well, you saw him. Every movement he made gave him away, told me what was coming next –"

Queen Marianne pursed her lips. “Not every Fairy is Roland, you know. I think there has to be at least  _one_  of us who could manage to surprise you.”

Bog couldn’t stop his snort. “I highly doubt that –"

Quick as a hawk after a hare, Queen Marianne kicked the blade of her sword up, sending it into a flashing spin into the air, where she swiftly caught it. The rest of Bog’s words died in his throat as he suddenly found a sword pointing at it.

Bog could only stare at her with wide eyes, immobile with shock.  ** _Hells._**

His head swam, and he suddenly felt short of breath, inexplicably warm all over. She had – that –  _she bloody well **had**  him_, caught him  _completely unawares_  -  

“You look,” Queen Marianne said, her lips twitching, “ _entirely_  too thrilled for someone who has a blade at his throat.” 

Bog was able to give a huff of laughter at that, embarrassment and excitement and adrenaline making it breathless. “That’s –  _quite_  true, but…” He looked at her, and gods, would she  _never_  stop surprising him? The move had been beautifully deft, her grip on the hilt sure and strong. Despite the quiver of her muscles, he saw that she was balancing the weight of the blade well. He had thought she was merely playacting earlier, but  _gods_ , with time and the right training…

His voice had an eagerness to it that was almost embarrassing.  _“You know how to fight?”_

She flushed and let out a slight laugh, drawing the blade smoothly away to let the point drop to the floor. “Oh, not really, just…my father desperately wanted to have boys to teach them all about fighting. Instead, he got Dawn and me. When I showed interest in swordplay, he was a bit reluctant.” She fiddled with her hair, looking down at her blade. “But my mother convinced him that every future ruler ought to know how to fight for their kingdom.”

His heart still thudding in his ears, Bog nodded. “Wise woman.”  

Queen Marianne looked up at that, her eyes wide and wary. “You think so?”

“Of course,” Bog replied, surprised. “King or Queen, a ruler must be able to keep their realm safe on all fronts. Combat is simply one of them.”

Queen Marianne tilted her head at him, almost suspicious. “Some would say a woman is ill suited for combat –"

“Some people are fools,” Bog said frankly. “In the Forest, goblins have to fight as one. It makes no difference what they are as long as they’re willing and able to defend.” He cocked his head at her, faintly disquieted. “Is that…is that truly a matter of concern with you?”

“Not me personally,” Queen Marianne said, making a wry face. “But…yeah, there’s always been the assumption here that woman can’t handle battles.”

Bog let out a noise between an exhale of disgust and a dry laugh. “Best not let Stuff hear you say that.”

Queen Marianne’s brow furrowed perplexedly. “ _Stuff…?_  Wait…is that -? Is that the one Goblin who always follows you around –“ her eyes suddenly popped.  _“That’s – she’s a girl?!”_

Bog raised a brow at her. “Isn’t it obvious?”

She laughed at that, still shocked. “It’s –  _subtle_ , I suppose. Wait, is the other one – Thang, right? Is he – I mean, are they –?"

“Male,” Bog answered promptly. “Though I primarily see him as an idiot.”

She laughed again, and the hall rang with it. “God, you’re  _horrible.”_

Bog’s smirk threatened to break into a grin. “Right flatterer you are.”

She chuckled and then gave him a look that was both inquisitive and teasing. “Y’know, I have to ask – is your scepter intended to be a weapon? Or was that just you improvising?”

Bog coughed slightly. “Well, all Kings of the Dark Forest have wielded it. But when I took the throne, I was instructed to handle it with a certain… _regalness.”_

Queen Marianne grinned. “Let me guess, said regalness disappeared real quick when you got into a fight –"

“Poleaxed the bugger. Don’t know who was more surprised, me or him.”

She giggled. “And since then –"

“It’s been a weapon as well as symbol of my role, aye.” He then gestured to her sword. “Have you only trained in swordplay?”

She hefted the blade once more and looked at it fondly. “Like I said, my father was reluctant. It was all Mom and I could do to convince him to let me do this. It was only for a short while, but – yeah, I would say it’s my favorite. It  _felt_ right, you know? But if I ever had the chance to learn how to use other weapons –“

“No time like the present,” Bog said, moving to her and extending his scepter.

She immediately went wide-eyed and shrunk back, but her grin was genuine if incredulous. “ _Oh_ , oh no, I couldn’t –"

“ _A ruler ought to know how to fight for their kingdom,_ ” Bog repeated, still holding out his weapon even as some part of him – which sounded suspiciously like the Elders - began screaming bloody murder over how  _that’s the bloody scepter of the Dark Forest, you prat, and you’re handing it over to a Fairy?!_  He ignored them and continued, cocking a brow at her. “A true ruler doesn’t limit themselves to just one form of combat. I have this, and I know how to wield that blade of yours –"

Queen Marianne still shook her head. “I can barely handle swordplay, you saw me!”

“You looked fine to me,” Bog observed, but he dropped his scepter. He wouldn’t push her, and honestly the offer had been an impulsive one. Instead, he gestured a claw at her sword. “But if you ever wanted proper instruction…"

Though she bit her lip in trepidation, he could see the want building in her eyes. When she set her jaw and extending the blade to him, Bog felt a strange sense of triumph.

His attention immediately went to her hand where it gripped the blade. “A common mistake is holding the grip too tight. You have to keep the wrist flexible for movement - there’s also the danger of losing accuracy in the point of your attack.” Queen Marianne immediately loosened her hand, and Bog placed his over it, correcting. “Not so much. You don’t want to drop the blade. Keep your arm as the main source of strength.”

Queen Marianne extended her arm accordingly and then looked at him, her large eyes sparkling with curiosity, her expression engaged and eager. “How’s this?”

“Fair, but –" Bog moved forward, and then stopped before gesturing to her arm. “Uh…if I may?”

She nodded easily, but when Bog stepped up behind her and passed his hand down to her arm, he felt her give an inhale of surprise. Even with a warning, having a Goblin at one’s back was undoubtedly unnerving. He kept his instruction quick. “When your arm extends in an attack, be sure to keep the elbow inward when it bends.” He shifted the limb slightly and stepped back to look at her, and nodded his approval. “Much better.”

Queen Marianne’s cheeks had a faint flush to them when she looked at him. “You… obviously know what you’re doing.” Her eyes crinkled with her smile. “Are all instructors as patient as you are?”

Bog let out a bark of laughter. “ _Patient_  is one thing I’ve never been called. And seeing as it was my father who instructed me, no, they are most certainly not. I had to be bloody quick to learn, and any laziness or insolence got swift retribution.” He waved a hand at himself. “My first scars were testaments to that.”

“So I see…” Queen Marianne’s eyes wandered over him freely, taking in the jagged lines and nicks in his scales that spoke of battle, and he could tell that she was torn between disquietude at the number of them and being impressed that he had survived so much. She suddenly pointed. “How did  _that_  one happen?”

Bog looked down at his hand, at the scar that sliced cleanly across the meat of his palm, the scarred tissue seeming even smoother in comparison to the rest of his rough hide –

_\- glass biting into his hand, his claws dripping with blood from the shattered shards, his agonized roar born of heartbreak as well the fire of his wound  –_

He looked away, feeling his good mood abate. “Just another fight…” he muttered.  _With a mirror._   

She looked at his hunched shoulders, his now closed off expression, and seemed to know not to ask any further questions.

Bog shook off the memory –  _away with ye_  – and shrugged a shoulder. “Fights are nothing new to the Forest. It’s a harsh land, and it deserves a ruler that’s harsh as well.”

Her lips quirked in a cynical one-sided grin. “Going off of that, one could say that the Fields were arrogant and showy and have no real strength to them.” The bitterness in her voice was a palpable thing, and she seemed to realize it and immediately flushed. “I – I’m sorry, that was too –"

He supposed he ought to have struggled when faced with such a blatant and biting display of her true feelings for her husband, but Bog found his words rolled off of his tongue quite easily. “One could also say that the Fields look delicate, but you’d best bloody well watch your back what with how they surprise you.”

She blinked at him, and Bog felt a burn of embarrassment –  _why would you bloody say that?!_ \- for all of five seconds before her smile bloomed across her lips like one of the flowers of her land. Her eyes glowed with warmth even as her voice was teasing. “Who’s the right flatterer now?”

Not sure what to do with himself with such a smile aimed at him, Bog scratched his claws at his neck and gave a cough before gesturing to where her sword was still clutched in her hand. “So…you’ve got the grip. Now for the actual fighting.” He gave her a smirk. “Shall we?”

Her eyes widened. “ _Wha_ – are you sure?”

Bog was already moving into a stance, the pain in his shoulder quite forgotten. “Best way to learn something is to do it –"

Queen Marianne hesitation lasted for only a few scant moments before she grinned, her face full of childish excitement and glee. She quickly moved her body into the proper position, her eyes alight and just a touch cautious. “Just remember, it’s been a long time for me–"

Bog inclined his head to her. “You’ll set the pace, you can take it as slow as you please.”  

She gave a little snort. “Thanks very much, but I should warn you -,” Queen Marianne’s drew the blade up, letting it mirror her cheek, and her smile was positively hungry in anticipation.  _“I don’t do slow.”_

Her sword flashed through the air, and Bog quickly countered it, and no, it was  _not_  slow, though still moderate considering the speed he was used to in battle –

She lunged and he stepped back to accommodate her, before he swept the scepter at her feet, gauging her footwork. She quickly spun out of reach, nimble despite her dress. She laughed, a joyful sound, and came at him once more, her smile as bright as her blade.

Bog was only just able to dodge the next blow, and aye, in the heat of the moment, she was rough, needed practice, but to have such raw  _power_ , to think that it was pure instinct guiding her – gods, but she was  _good_ –

“It appears -” He called out, his voice sly, “-I faced the wrong ruler” –the sword swept in a large arc at him, and he struck it away easily, “- in combat.”

 _“Please,”_  Queen Marianne rolled those dark eyes, but her flush was one of pleasure as well as exertion. She shrugged deprecatingly even as she blocked one of his blows. “I’m only barely getting by –"

“Modesty only gets you so far in a fight, your majesty.” Bog didn’t even bother to hide his grin now. “You fight well, for a –"

Queen Marianne smirked at him, though the glint in her eyes was dangerous. “Female?”

“A  _Fairy_.” Bog dodged her sword. “I told you, that doesn’t matter to me –"

“But being a Fairy does.” She shifted her blade, only to find it pinned by his scepter. She heaved at her weapon with a grunt before shooting a look at him, her eyes narrowed. “You know, not  _all_  of us are Roland –"

Bog’s chuckle was almost a growl. “Thank gods for small mercies –"

Queen Marianne huffed out a laugh but continued. “ _I_ managed to surprise you –"

He bared his fangs at her, his eyes taunting and bright.  _“I have my limits.”_

She bared her teeth back at him, her eyes gleaming as she yanked her sword away.  _“Then let’s test them.”_

He was going to warn her not to push herself so, not to get too caught up in the fight, but as the speed increased, Bog found he was simply enjoying himself too much to give a damn. He snarled out another laugh as she nearly landed a strike. Oh gods, he  _liked_  this, liked her –

 _Oh._  He liked her. Well.

So distracted he was by this revelation -  _“I don’t like anyone”_  – that he didn’t catch his next blow coming too close to her face. Queen Marianne shrieked and drew back, fear in her eyes.

Bog was about to give a horrified apology when –

Her fist flew up toward him and –

**_WHAM._ **

His body curved backward –

The next thing Bog knew, he was on the ground, sprawling on the dirt, his scepter tumbling out of his hands. 

_She –_

He blinked dazedly at the high ceiling above him –

 _She had_  -

The entire left side of his face was numb in a way that promised burning pain soon, along with a spectacular bruise –

_She had bloody **hit**  him._

A  _Fairy_  had bloody  _hit_  him, punched him clean across the jaw,  _him_ , the Bog King of the Dark Forest, knocked him down with the force of her blow,  _a single blow_ –

 _“Bog King!”_  There was the clatter of a sword being dropped, and suddenly Marianne was above him, her eyes large and panicked and horrified as she dropped to her knees, heedless of her gown in her urgency.  _“Oh god, I-I’m so -!_  I don’t know  _what_  came over me, I swear -! It happened  _so fast,_  and I just saw it coming down towards me, and I just  _reacted_ \- I’m  _so_ sorry, god,  _I am so sorry!_  That was – I can’t believe I – that was _so_ –"

“ _Impressive,”_  Bog finished, finally managing to pull himself up. His voice was a bit slurred, but his eyes shone with admiration as he drank her in, the Fairy who had felled him with one punch.  ** _Hells…_**

She stared at him, her eyes widened to almost comic proportions. “… _Impressive?!”_

Bog nodded, eyes still moving across her face in awe. “ _Very.”_

“I – I hit you across the face and - and –  _you’re calling it impressive?!”_

“It’s been,” Bog said empathetically as he worked to sit up, “a  _very_  long time since I had such a spar. And no one,” –  _least of all a Fairy_  – “has ever hit me like  _that_.” He finally managed to sit up all the way, his head still a bit dizzy. “So, aye.  _Impressive.”_   

He looked at her,  _truly_  looked at her, this Fairy Queen with her soft skin and hard knuckles and fiery eyes and tender flesh and laughed once more, a soft exhale of awe. “Gods, you’re a  _natural_. Born to fight.”

She stared at him, any further apologies she had been about to say dying on her lips.

Bog rubbed at his cheek.  _Damn,_  it was tender. “And you needn’t worry, you’re not the first to strike out in fear. Pure instinct.” He prodded at a tooth with his tongue – not loose, but still, if her aim had been a bit more to the left – and then nodded at her hand, its knuckles faintly red. “But if  _that_  was you not intending to hurt me –"

Marianne gave a small huff, and whether it was an exhale of tension or shaky laughter, Bog couldn’t tell. “I really,  _really_  didn’t mean to, I – I didn’t even know I could punch like that –" She let out another gusty breath and gave him a deeply contrite look. “I – I am  _so sorry,_  though, truly I am –"

“It takes more than a punch to do in a King,” Bog stated, getting to his feet and extending a hand to her. She gazed at it before delicately placing her hand in his, her slender fingers once again dwarfed by his feral claws, and rose. His eyes swept over her, her pink cheeks, her hair mussed from the fight, the skirt of her dress now dirty from kneeling beside him. He continued, his voice taking on a gentle assurance. “And as impressive as yours was, it’s safe to say I’m far from dead.”

Marianne looked up at him, her eyes seeking his as if to search the truth of his statement. She then gave a slight smile before looking away, her hand dropping from his and her shoulders hunching a bit. “You – you shouldn’t say that. That I’m born to fight.”

Bog gave a bemused laugh. “Why not, you are–"

“I –" She paused and looked frustrated. “For the longest time, all I ever wanted was to fight, to learn how, and Roland – I used to ask him, I thought it might been something we could share, but –“ She sighed, looking away. “He said -  _says_  a King should protect his Queen, not have to worry about her slicing up her dresses –"

“A King should want a Queen who could fight for herself  _and_ for him. There’s no shame in that.” Bog looked at how her body had drawn inward, the joy of the spar lost under the memory of her husbands’ words. He continued, his voice low and certain. “A true King would want his Queen to be his equal. You’re far more than that. You’re a fighter. He isn’t.”

Marianne stared up at him, her large eyes unblinking, his words once again rendering her silent. Bog shrugged a shoulder, feeling faintly foolish for how pathetically earnest the words were. But it was merely the truth, it shouldn’t be so shocking. “It’s a simple fact.”      

Still staring at him, Marianne slowly shook her head, giving a soft, almost wondering smile. “You know…you say I’m the surprising one, but…you do a pretty good job yourself.”

Bog tilted his head at her, confused, and she smiled once more as if she had a secret before she tossed her head and bent to retrieve her sword with a laugh. “Well…I might not be able to wield a sword  _perfectly_  just yet, but if I punch as well as you say I do…” She swung the blade softly, and it cut through the air in a glimmering path. Her tone was faintly smug,“…I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Bog said, his eyes going from the sword to her, and his voice was warm and amused. “You’re a tough one.”

Marianne’s grin was a mix of pride and bashfulness, and then she sighed, looking wistful. “I wish I could do this more –“

“You could,” Bog said, and  _hells_ , his voice was once again embarrassingly eager. “I mean – if you wanted to – I haven’t sparred with anyone except the goblins, and none of them can face me on their own.”

The thought seized him and left his mouth before he could even think. “Perhaps you could come to the Forest?”

Marianne stared at him, her eyes wide.  _“…What?”_

Oh  _gods,_  damn him and his impetuousness, it would always be there to make him act like a bloody fool, what was he  _doing,_   _had he lost his bloody mind –?!_

“For sparring,” Bog continued, his voice deliberately casual even as his guts churned. Hells, the request had been impulsive, but she  _said_  she had wanted to do this more, and the idea of sparring with her again was – “I could help you train, teach you how to use other weapons, and – and you could see the Forest as well –"

“I…” Marianne interrupted, looking down, a wince marring her features, “…I don’t know if that’s the best idea.”

Bog’s voice abruptly died, and he looked at her, taking her in.  

Her shoulders were drawn up, her face was pale, and tension was in every line of her body, from her furrowed brow to her fists that clenched at the soft petals of her skirt.

Her whole being spoke of deep fear and unease.

All because he had invited her to his realm.

Bog’s breath left him, his own shoulders falling.  _Oh._  

And then, with rising, betrayed disgust:  ** _Oh…_**  

So it was all well and good for him to come to  _her_  Kingdom, for him to subject himself to the glare of the Sun and leave his land and his people at  _her_  whim, was it? Fine for her to spar with a Goblin in the safety of  _her_ Palace, but  _oh_ , if she ventured into such dark and dire lands, who  _knows_ what would happen to her, alone and at his mercy? The vicious Bog King who still couldn’t be trusted, the monster that ruled that shadowed and dreadful realm –

Bog bit back a growl. Gods, he was  _never_  going to stop being proven a fool, was he? Served him right, getting his hopes up, letting impetuousness rule, letting whatever misplaced affection and admiration blind him –

She was a Fairy. And fairies feared his realm, always had and always would.

_Why did you think that she would be any different?_

“Ah see…” Bog said softly, his voice a cold, soft snarl. The Fairy Queen lifted her head, looking taken aback by the abrupt change in his domineer. He let his eyes, cool and hard, take in her face, going over every feature, memorizing every aspect that marked her as so very  _different_  from him. When he spoke, the civil words stood in stark contrast to his harsh tone. “No worries, your majesty. Ah shan’t ask again, Ah can promise ye tha’.”

Queen Marianne’s eyes widened, and she suddenly looked concerned, anxious. “Wait, Bo– I mean, Bog King, let me explain –"

“My goblins will take care o’ this,” Bog interrupted, waving abruptly to where his weapons still lay. “If ye’ll pardon me,  _your majesty,_  Ah need ta return ta my  Kingdom.”

Before she could say anything else, he took to the air and flew up the stairs, his heart thudding hot and heavy, a snarl on his lips and anger pounding through him. To think he had let himself be so  _foolish,_  so open and easy to attack, so  _vulnerable_  –

He heard her call after him and he put on some speed, turning hard down the hall, his wings buzzing.

_“I don’t like anyone…”_

Bog grimaced, refusing to let any other emotion other than offended rage rule him then, certainly not  _betrayal,_  certainly not  _hurt_.

There was a reason why he didn’t.

And she, that Fairy Queen with her large eyes and warm smiles, in all her tough and tender glory, had reminded him of just  _why._


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick Note - Beltane is the 1st of May, a Gaelic Festival which celebrates the beginning of Summer. Lughnasadh, the first of August, celebrates the beginning of the Harvest Season, and has not yet occurred in this fanfic. Just a little "The More You Know"! 
> 
> Also, I highly suggest listening to RainyMood when reading this chapter.

* * *

** _Chapter Six_ **

 

The promise of rain was thick upon the air; the midsummer’s late afternoon charged with warm dampness, the sky above the Fields a swath of dark, swollen clouds. What sky that was visible was a pearly gray, with the tell tale greenish tinge that always seemed to herald a beast of a tempest. The muggy air weighed on all creatures like mud, thick and bogging down those who dared to attempt to move through it. 

_Never mind flying._  Bog grit his teeth and eyed the thunderously grim sky as though it had personally wronged him, his blue eyes glinting ominously out from his furrowed brow as he leaned against the window. Of all the times for a storm to approach…

Bog was able to tolerate the heat of Summer relatively well, as long as it was dry and he was able to keep to the shade of his Forest. But this muggy, smothering nonsense…!

Bog growled. He felt ready to nearly molt out of sheer irritability. The sky had looked threatening all day; the damp air heavy upon his scales, and the wings of all of the members of the Fairy Council had either been twitchy with nerves or limp with moist heat.

The meeting today had been an irritable affair, with passive-aggressive comments and tetchy words snapped across the table. Fairies were known to be nervous about storms, and such rudeness was merely the result of ill-concealed fear. But Bog was too irritated to care about that fact, having born the brunt of one too many ill-disguised insults. Many of them had been from that twit of a King, still petty and bitter about his public humiliation at their spar, making Bog yearn to smack him upside the head like the brat he was being,  _what a child_  -  

And then there was the fact that _**she**_  hadn’t been there to shut down such trivial and petty arguments –

_And gods help him, he was actually almost thankful for that, at least he needn’t deal with seeing her -_

Bog shook his head and returned to glaring up at the sky. The meeting was nearly done, and they were in the midst of a brief recess. If a storm  _was_  to occur, it had best start showing more signs then just some bloody clouds, and  _soon_. Bog was eager to make his escape back to the Forest, and if a storm hit before he was able to gather the rest of the goblins – they had  _finally_  been allowed a spot on the Council meetings – he was faced with the chance of an indefinite amount of time of being grounded at the Fairy Palace.

Bog groaned, leaning against the edge of one of the many windows of the great hallway outside the Council Chamber. He didn’t  _have_  to wait, he  _could_ brave the storm and head back –

As for the others, well…they were hardy, and the dragonflies had been through far worse –

His shoulders slumped. Hells, he couldn’t. Damn his irritability and his nerves, he would not put such a risk upon his subjects just because –

_Just because you don’t want to deal with the chance of seeing her, even if they said she was feeling too poorly -_

Bog’s scowl deepened, irritation and guilt creasing the already severe lines of his face. He was  _not_  about to start dwelling on this again…

Late Spring had bled into Summer, the celebration of Beltane long since passed. There had been a festival, to which he had been invited. Griselda had squealed with delight, going on and on about how  _lovely_  the festivals of her youth had been,  _you never got out as much as you should have as a boy, dear, this will be perfect for you!_

She had been incredibly cross when he had declined, but there was little else he could do. Not only was he busy with his Kingdom, but the memory of that wretched Spring Ball still hung over him.

Never mind that he wanted to keep his contact with a certain Fairy Queen limited to Council meetings…

Bog sighed, his claws curling into a fist. He  _wanted_  to, aye, but he couldn’t. He had made a promise. A promise that no one else would ever know about, but a promise all the same. It mattered not that Queen Marianne had made her true feelings about his Kingdom clear. She still needed someone to look after her, and Bog would keep to that silent pledge.  

Besides…it was only his  _land,_  not his people that she had revealed such distaste for. She remained endlessly courteous and gracious to his goblins as well as to him, despite the new coolness in Bog’s demeanor whenever they  _did_  happen to interact. He had taken pains to not engage her in further conversations, keeping their talks solely to the subjects of the meetings. If she had noticed such efforts and his new manner with her, Queen Marianne had given no sign, and Bog had forbidden himself to look for one.

And if there  _had_  been a moment, meeting again after the weapons demonstration, where she had hesitantly tried to speak to him alone, her large eyes wider still with uncertainty –

_“Bog King, I was…I was wondering if I – I just – wanted to say –"_

_“We should return to the Chamber, your highness. Best get the meeting over.” He hadn’t been able to meet her eyes, still too mired in an ugly mix of anger and something that was most certainly not hurt._

_“…Yes, of course.” Even with his determination in not looking at her, the slump in her shoulders was obvious, her lowered eyes sending something twisting in his chest that he coldly chose not to examine._

 - Well. It didn’t matter. She was once more the elegant and professional Queen of the Fairies with whom he did diplomacy with, nothing more.

Bog straightened his spine. It was for the best. He could remain her ally and still keep his distance, and she needn’t be troubled by the idea of braving the horrors of his Kingdom.

His Kingdom that he had so freely offered to have her visit, so eager and naïve, impetuous and rash and rushing in like a fool…

Bog grit his teeth.  _Enough._  It was only the Forest she feared, not his people. Only his land that she so dreaded, only his domain that the very thought of had made her pale –

_Only his home_   _that he had never once invited anyone to, had never dared to –_

_And this was why -_

Bog gave a harsh exhale. Best indeed that she simply stayed the cool and collected Queen. To think he had made such a foolish offer to a Fairy, let childish eagerness rule him – the rush of excitement that had come over him as they fought had been a heady one indeed, turned his head entirely.  

…And yes, fine, that spar  _had_  been glorious, the best he had had in ages -  

And the memory of her smile, as bright as the blade she had wielded with such surprising grace and strength, and the echo of her laugh, joyful and free, still snuck up on him if he wasn’t careful–

_He had only just begun to start knowing her -_

The ache of bitter disappointment, the same that had shot through him at the sight of her deep unease and fear at the prospect of visiting his realm, burned through Bog once more.

His brow furrowed and he gripped his scepter, his claws scratching into the metal. _It didn’t matter._  Diplomacy was his goal, not a… _connection_  with her. If he had been foolish enough to think she would be interested in seeing his world, to hope that she might want to spend time with him…it merely was a harsh indication of how far he had fallen into base sentimentality. He was better off alone.

_No one gets a chance hurt you._

Bog grit his teeth once more, resisting the urge to roll his eyes when the call to return to the Chamber came down the hall. He had  _not_ been bloody  _hurt_. This was  _not_  some fatalistic wound; he was lapsing into the melodrama of his youth.

Grumbling a bit to himself, he pushed away from the window, rolling a shoulder and cracking his neck. Only a few more minutes of the meeting and then he would be free to leave, escape before the storm hit…

_Safe from a chance of encountering her_  -

He hung back, letting the councilors flit and file into the Chamber, and gave the sky one last glower. Hells, even if he  _did_  make it back to his Castle before the storm hit…Bog knew that he wouldn’t be able to escape the tempest that was gripping his guts now, the clash of contradicting truths making his teeth grind and his eyes burn and his head ache.

He  _was_  still angry with her for raising his hopes and with himself for being such a fool. That was one truth.

He  _didn’t_  want to see Queen Marianne. That was another truth, he was certain of it. Or he had been.  

But…not seeing her at the meeting today…he had been relieved, he  _had_ , but…

The last of the councilors went in, and Stuff raised an eyebrow at her King as she waddled into the Chamber. Bog ignored her – he got enough nagging from his mother as it was – and forced himself to confront the final truth that was putting him into such a state:

That he desperately wished that he could dislike her. But…he  _couldn’t._

Bog sighed, his expression going tired and melancholy.  _And that’s what makes it all the more worse, doesn’t it?_

A  _BOOM_  of thunder rolled through the air as if to punctuate his thoughts, and a babble of nervous and alarmed voices broke forth from within the Chamber.

Bog sighed with irritable and exhausted acceptance.  _So much for escaping._

He shot a nasty look out at the Fields, where rain began to softly patter over the flowers, gentle and pure and confounding, before going into the Chamber and slamming the door shut.

* * *

Bog was sure his fangs were about to wear down from grinding so much, and an old adage of his mother’s came to him unbidden.  _Never rains but pours, indeed._

The roll of thunder and gentle rain had decided to now fall in hard sheets, blurring the flowers of Fields and rendering his Forest into a dark smear.

What with the great unease such a downpour provoked, the rest of the meeting had been called off so that the fairies – blatantly jittery with each rumble from the sky - could retreat further into the Palace for safety and security, with Roland ordering Knights down to the Elf Village to make sure all people were safely indoors. Bog had been surprised at such rare thoughtfulness before hearing the Fairy King mutter to one of his cronies,  “Marianne  _never_  let me hear the end of it the last time I forgot to do that…”

Bog had let out a sour snort of disgust before ordering his goblins to bring the dragonflies indoors – the beasts could brave many things, but not a downpour like this.  _He_  wouldn’t even dare to go out now. One of the studies had been opened for them to wait in, and Bog had left Muggon to go over the maps on the walls whilst Farrow and Fleasley and Stuff and Thang pulled as many books and scrolls as they could off the shelves into an untidy pile on the floor. He hadn’t stopped them – it would be good for them to read up on the texts of this realm.  _As long as they don’t get the idea to make a bonfire from them…_

Which left him to wander the halls of the Palace…

Bog normally would have hated being so aimless, but he was restless, needed to move. Reading while it rained was relaxing, but only when it was in the security of his Castle. Besides, there was truly nothing he could do. Sending a message to the Forest was out of the question, and pointless besides. It would be obvious that he would be delayed by a gale like this.

Bog paused at a small courtyard that opened out onto a sprawling garden, one of the many that the Palace contained. Though the boulder the Palace was housed was large and immovable, there were many nooks and crannies, hollowed out by workers and weather alike, that Bog was still discovering. He ventured further into it; head tilted curiously, his steps slow.

It was open and airy, a common feature with the halls of the Palace – fairies did not care to be enclosed.  The stifling mugginess in the air had lifted, and it was now blessedly cool and fresh. The floor was damp and somewhat slick with the pattering rain that fell in through the wide, arching windows that looked out over the garden, which in turn sloped gently into the Fields. Bog imagined that when the weather was clear, the view would be deemed quite spectacular by Fairy standards. Fields full of sunshine, countless blooms bright and fragrant, endless skies above for them to fly in…

Bog let out a scoffing exhale.  _Too much light, too much openness._  Give him shadows and the canopy of leaves any day. Although…

He went closer to one of the alcove windows, vaguely noting that it would make a good place to sit and enjoy the view. And at the moment… he found the view to be not all that bad.

The rain was fierce, of course, but Bog had always enjoyed the ferocity of such storms, the sheer power of the skies unleashed. He was a Goblin; he couldn’t help but admire such savagery. It had been the same when he was young, the Bog Prince watching with wide eyes as the sky boiled black, clouds flashing and growling, the very air thrumming with power as he stayed safe under the cover of his father’s fortress.

_“Hells of a sight, isn’t it, lad? Ye think ye can be tha’ powerful?”_

Bog let out a soft exhale of laughter as he leaned against the stone frame of the window. It had always come back to power for the Gravener King. His younger self had merely been awed, and then determined to test himself, darting between the raindrops and skidding on the wet leaves of the Forest floor…

_“Boggy, sweetheart, be careful!”_

_“Nae need ta coddle th’ boy, Griselda, he’s doin’ fine –“_

_“I ain’t coddling him, Tough Guy, I’m mothering him, there’s a difference –“_

Though he would never admit it, to this day the smell and sound of rain was a comfort to him, a reminder of simpler times…

By now, the thunder and lightening had softened, but the rain continued to fall in a thick and heavy curtain, transforming the garden before him into something soft and hazy and misty. Bog’s eyes swept over it, and a slight smile came unbidden.  _Not all that bad, indeed._

The scent of rain and fresh soil and stone was thick in the air, and Bog inhaled deeply. Gods, but it smelled of home almost. Only a bit sweeter, the Fields wouldn’t have the mold and moss and rotting wood that his Forest did…

_His land_ …Bog grimaced softly as his claws drumming softly against the stone sill of the window, his wings twitching in the damp air. Gods, but he wanted to be there now. The goblins knew what to do in a storm, they were fiercely self-reliant, but he couldn’t help but worry.  _The fate of all rulers when they were away from their domain_ … _I should be there…_

Bog let out a soft sigh, weariness and worry taking the edge off of his irritation, but by not much. Instead, he was stranded.

At the Fairy Palace.

For how long, he had no idea.

_Gods dammit._

Well, at least he could watch the storm in peace.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

Bog whirled around, claws hooked and wings flaring in wild agitation, fangs bared and holding back a yelp of surprise.  

Queen Marianne sat in one of the little seats across from the window, that were sunken into the stone wall. It shielded her from the rain but still gave a clear view of the storm as the clouds rolled across the sky, the hard downpour turning the flowers of her land into watery blurs of color. A shawl of woven moss was tucked around her, but she otherwise seemed unaffected by whatever damp chill there was, apparently quite recovered from whatever had made her miss the meeting.

She quirked a small little smile at him as he struggled to catch his breath, his heart hammering in his chest –  _gods, he hadn’t even noticed her_  - though her golden-brown eyes were a bit wary. “Or am I completely biased in that opinion?”

“Wha-?  _Oh!_  Ah,  _no_ , no no no, it’s… _uh_ …” Bog fumbled for an answer, his shock making him forget his resolve for detached formality when dealing with the Queen. “It’s, uh…” For lack of knowing what else to do, he turned back to where the garden spread beneath them, and gestured to it a bit lamely, his voice somewhat strained. “… _Lovely.”_

She tilted her head at him, her eyes warm and amused, and he couldn’t help but look at her, his eyes sweeping from her crown to her skirts tucked beneath her. Something about her seemed… _different_ , he couldn’t place it -

“Such glowing praise,” Queen Marianne said, a gentle teasing to her voice, and she let out a soft laugh when he shot her a look. “It’s okay, not everyone likes the rain –"

“Whoever said I didn’t care for the rain?” Bog grumbled, looking away from her, an unexplainable flush creeping up his neck. Now that some of the shock of seeing her had worn off, he latched onto the familiar resentment that had served him well the last couple of weeks.  _Thinking he didn’t like rain, of course she would make such an assumption, just like a Fairy to flit to such conclusions -_

Her eyes darted down and her cheeks flushed, looking faintly chagrined. “Sorry, uh…I guess I just…” She fumbled for her words, and Bog felt a faint sense of satisfaction, one which wasn’t immature in the slightest.

The Queen looked back up at him and shrugged a shoulder, her eyes once more wary. “I…I suppose I’m just used to people here being not all that fond of it.”

Bog made no reply and turned away, giving her his back as he leaned on the ledge of the window to watch the downpour. She needn’t explain herself to him, she owed him nothing.  _I owe her nothing –_

Silence fell, and the soothing sound of the summer shower striking gently against stone, rolled over them. Bog determinedly kept his gaze ahead, but from the corner of his eye he saw her dart a glance at him before giving a soft sigh, her expression a mix of quiet frustration and resignation. An uncomfortable hot curl of something went through him, and –

_Damn it._

“The Council meeting was cancelled.” His voice seemed loud and especially rough after such silence, echoing slightly in the alcove. He continued to look over the garden, but registered that she had started slightly, her large eyes fixing on him. He continued, still leaning against the frame of the window, still determinedly casual. “Your councilors became quite distressed at the storm.” He looked over his shoulder at her, keeping his expression as studiously indifferent as possible. “I was under the impression such behavior was typical of all fairies.”

Queen Marianne gave a little click of her tongue, her expression faux-reprimanding. “That’s awfully assumptive of you, your highness.”

Bog had to quickly looked away, shock going through him in a thoroughly unpleasant jolt. He hadn’t meant to – she was the one to – he wasn’t -

Hot discomfort washed over him.  _Well, that’s some choice irony, isn’t it?_

Fine, so he was a bloody hypocrite. Still didn’t make her attitude to his realm any kind of acceptable –

Queen Marianne, meanwhile, seemed to take no notice of his sudden shamefacedness and sighed, leaning back in her seat to once more look out the window, her head resting against one of the pillars that supported the arch. “Honestly, yeah, the majority of us fear storms. It’s instinctual, I suppose. But…I don’t know, they’ve always fascinated me.” Long, slim fingers tapped against her knee as she watched the shower turn the Fields into a watery, glistening, wavering tapestry of smeared color, her dark eyes thoughtful and deep. “I mean, I’m not an idiot, I could never go out in them nowadays, but I’ve always liked them.” She paused and then gave a soft laugh, a faintly mocking edge to it. “Then again, I  _do_  have a habit of liking things that are bad for me.”

It was the most he had heard her speak in a long time, and Bog was finding, to his great consternation, that her voice was a deeply welcome sound, her warm alto weaving in with the gentle drum of the rain into something that was honestly quite –

Bog cleared his throat, determined not to finish that thought, though hells if he knew why. He cast about for something to say, and latched onto one of her musings. “You said…you couldn’t go out into this  _nowadays_.” His claws tapped against the damp stone, and he flicked a hesitant glance her way. “Does that mean…in the past, did you…?” 

She gave him a shrug, but her eyes were warm, seeing something he couldn’t see. “I used to really love it when I was younger. Whenever I felt a storm in the air, I would run out into the gardens.” She grinned suddenly, and the warm glow of it in the pale, dim gray light was almost unearthly. “It gave my father absolute _fits_  that he couldn’t chase after me.”

“Why not?” The world was barely out of his mouth when he realized what he had done, and Bog nearly groaned. So much for his hard-forged resolve for not engaging with her anymore, not becoming curious, not seeking her out…

But by now Queen Marianne had positively perked up as their conversation continued, her eyes sparkling at such obvious and undeniable signs of his interest. For a brief, traitorous moment, Bog wondered if there was actually a chance that she had missed talking with him…

His next thought came unbidden, the voice of which was sly and sounded far too much like his mother. _Like you missed talking to her?_

Bog proceeded to imagine grinding said voice into a fine, bloody paste.

He was distracted when Queen Marianne shrugged her shawl away a bit, exposing her wings. “Fairy wings are too fragile for rain,” she said matter-of-factly. “The force of the drops would tear through them.” As if to punctuate her statement, the wings twitched with a soft rustle, and Bog examined the fine, almost silken looking texture, the thousands of tiny scales catching whatever dim light there was.

Queen Marianne continued on. “If Dad braved the storm, yeah, he  _might_ catch me, but he could have also permanently damaged his wings. At the very best, he would have been grounded for the next couple of days. It was a fact I abused shamelessly.” She gave another smile, slightly shamefaced. “Like I said, we’re taught to fear storms from an early age, and it’s for a good reason. But since fairies only get their wings when our childhood ends…" There was an undeniable air of mischief in her smile now. “My father would accuse me of saving all my fights with him for a rainy day in a  _very_  literal sense.”

Bog felt betrayed by the realization that he had missed that mischievous glint in her eyes, but couldn’t stop his chuckle. “Conniving little beastie, weren’t you?”

“You say  _conniving_ , I say  _clever_ ,” she retorted, but her smile was full of laughter and happiness over fond memories. She let out a sigh and looked once more out of her window, a wistful edge to her expression. “You know, I couldn’t  _wait_  to get my wings, I was so eager to fly. But now…I would give anything to feel the rain again,  _really_  feel it.” She waved a hand at the storm, the rain unceasing as ever. “Even if it’s as good as a death wish, I always thought flying through one of these would be exhilarating.”

“It is,” Bog said, looking out over the watery wash of the garden. “Incredibly dangerous, aye, but thrilling.”

She looked at him with wide eyes. “ _You mean you’ve -?”_

Bog couldn’t stop himself from giving a half-smile at her impressed gaze. “It was my father’s doing, one of the tests of those who will rule the Forest. A King must be able to withstand the elements if his Kingdom has need of him. Turmoil doesn’t always wait for calm skies. Besides, goblins don’t fear the rain as fairies do.” He gestured to where his domain lay, vast and shadowed, the foliage of the trees a dark, thick, trembling mass in the gale. “The leaves of the Forest shelter us, takes the brunt of the force. What rain that manages to get through –“ He gave a shrug, the scales of his shoulders shifting. “Well, the majority of those who dwell there are well suited for such things.”

“Water doesn’t affect you?” Queen Marianne tilted her head, looking surprised. “What about your wings?

Bog felt the hint of the smile he had fade fast.  _Ah…_

He looked away, choosing his next words carefully. “The skins of most goblins are suited for moisture. As for wings…” he paused, and to his faint horror, felt himself begin to flush. He couldn’t help it, it was a tender subject for him. “I’m…I’m actually the only Goblin I know of that has wings.”

He valiantly ignored the surprised blink Queen Marianne gave at that news, and waved a casually deprecating claw down his body. “Or with armor like this. My father had both, but flight amongst goblins – it’s not a common thing.” He paused once more before continuing, his voice softer, rough and hesitant. “You’ve…you’ve most likely have noticed by now that I’m… _unique_ amongst my people.”

There was a slight pause as Queen Marianne sat up straighter, biting her lip, and the look she gave him was a mix of hesitancy and frankness. “I…honestly, goblins are so much more diverse than I had ever expected, I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to make ignorant assumptions.” She looked away and gave a slight chuckle. “Fairies must seem very boring in comparison.”

Bog could only blink, shock and surprise rendering him utterly unable to reply.  _She hadn’t –she didn’t care, it didn’t matter to her?_

_She thought she was **boring**  to him…?_

Queen Marianne tucked a lock behind her ear, then gave a wry smile. “Although…for the record, I’m considered rather  _unique_  amongst my people too. As you’ve most likely have noticed by now.” The look she gave him was teasing as she echoed his words, but a faint bitterness came into her tone as she continued. “So…here’s to us, right? Odd ones out amongst our species, and yet we’re the rulers of them. That’s gotta count _._ ”

Bog wasn’t sure how to respond to that, and looked back out the window, grasping for words once more. He  _had_ noticed she was –  _different_ , something he had enjoyed immensely –

_She’s the same as them when it comes to fearing your Kingdom –_

Bog frowned at the venomous thought and cleared his throat. “I…I hope you’re feeling better. Your…The King said you weren’t able to come to the meeting because of some illness.”

Queen Marianne waved a hand carelessly. “Roland exaggerates. Just a headache.” Her smile was sharp and one-sided. “I tend to get those around him.” Bog snorted, and her smile softened a bit, before she leveled a frank look at him. “Though I wouldn’t have thought my presence was missed.” Her tone was as courteous as ever, but her eyes were eloquent with her real meaning.  _I thought you wouldn’t have cared._

Bog’s shoulders hunched instinctively, but he forced himself to not go after such obvious baiting, choosing once more to look out over the Fields. “Diplomacy works best if all parties contribute.” It was a bland, evasive answer, and they both knew it.

Queen Marianne sighed, a whisper of disappointment in it. “True…” she mumbled, looking down at her hands, her fingers twisting together. “I hope it wasn’t too unpleasant for you. I know Roland is still bitter about your fight –"

“He’s being a right brat about it,” Bog confirmed bluntly, still watching the Fields. “But only that.” He smirked softly. “You were right, he’s too spineless to do anything else –"

She gave a little scoffing laugh. “You know, there was once a time when I thought it was sweet he would always cave whenever we squabbled?  _That_ sure changed…” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

Bog clicked his tongue in disgusted agreement. “Quite the tenacious one when it comes to getting his own way –"

“- But once he truly gets challenged, he backs down.” Queen Marianne nodded and crossed her arms, her face full of tired acceptance and well-worn annoyance. Her voice was soft and bitter and barely heard under the rain. “I used to think it was a good sign for our marriage…”

Bog was sure she hadn’t meant to make such a statement aloud, and continued to look out the window as the hot prickle of discomfort at such blunt unhappiness crawled along his neck.

Letting out a soft exhale, he let his eyes sweep over the sprawling Fields, the green grass now shining silver. “It’s truly is different here when it rains…” he murmured. He was used to the Fields being a constant source of sunshine, bright and hot and unceasing…

“But not bad,” Queen Marianne said softly. “It’s nice to have some change.” She gave him a curious look. “How different _is_  it in the Forest when it rains? You said the leaves protect you…”

Bog turned to face her, sinking against the arching pillar of the window. “Some of the storms can break though canopy, but…aye, the most we get is damp.” He thought back to it, to the countless times he had braved the downpour to survey his Kingdom, the scent and the sight easily recalled, and his smile was slight but fond. “Everything is…heightened, in a way. The moss smells richer, the soil is damper…you can practically  _feel_  things rotting and growing.” He shrugged a shoulder, his scales shifting. “It’s not without its dangers, of course. We’ve had floods, and the mud can mire those who aren’t wary, but…rains are good for our land.”

He looked over his shoulder, his expression softening as he regarded his far off realm. “It’s even better at night. There’s nothing like falling asleep to rain…” He paused and then let out a soft chuckle. “Though many of us are just as active during the night as we are during the day.”

Marianne leaned forward, fascinated. “Really? Aren’t there predators? Fairies don’t really go out in the Fields when it’s nighttime. Even when we have our festivals, we have to make sure none of us venture too far.”

“Goblins are usually the most dangerous things in the Forest to begin with,” Bog said dryly. “We take precautions, of course, but…” He smiled to himself, “…nighttime in the Forest is too good not to witness. Stops being so dark then…”

Marianne left her bench and walked closer to him, her eyes bright with curiosity as they fixed upon his face. “How so?”

Bog looked off, seeing the lay of his land as clearly as if were in front of him, the imagined sight and the soft patter of the rain lulling him. “The Forest has many things that only really come to life at night – certain animals, certain plants. We’ve have funguses that gain a luminescence when night falls, and then there’s the fireflies as well.” He grinned reminiscently. “There’s this one spot, a cavern of sorts, where the glowworms are, that’s my favorite. Found it when I was just a boy, climbing through a briar patch. Thorns almost took my eyes out, but it was worth it. The strands hang from the ceiling, and the way they glow, it’s likemoonlight hitting a spider-web full of dew, it’s so –"

The frankly poetic turn of his words made Bog pause and give an embarrassed laugh.  _Gods, that was trite._  “Um, anyways, it’s…it’s quite nice. I think I’m the only person who knows of it, but I may be wrong. It became the place I would escape to, I still like to visit it…”

_Why_ was he doing this,  _why_ was he being so blatantly  _nostalgic_  in front of her, so frankly  _sentimental,_  he  _shouldn’t_ , he was exposing too much, sharing too much –

But a small, enthused smile had crept along Marianne’s lips as he had talked so warmly about his land, and a small bloom of warmth started in Bog’s chest at how starry her eyes were. Her voice was soft and wondering. “It sounds  _beautiful_ …”

Bog looked away, feeling almost bashful at the sight of her obvious enchantment. “It…aye, it really is.” 

She gave a sudden, soft little laugh, her hand carding through her hair, tucking a strand behind the soft curve of her ear. “It’s so strange, to hear you talk about the Forest as if its  _home_ …”

Cold reality washed over Bog, immediately sobering him out of the warmth of fond memories. He was back at the Fairy Palace, stuck in the rain next to the Fairy who apparently couldn’t decide whether she found his realm a place of horror or fascination.

The look he gave her was cool, and so was his tone, his frankness verging on curt. “It  _is_  my home.”

The Fairy Queen immediately flinched, and her wince was borne of pure embarrassment and consternation. “I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –"

“Course ye didn’t,” Bog muttered, turning back to the window. Gods, why did he even bother?

“No, truly, I  _am_  sorry,” the Queen said, her words rushed and earnest. “I…” she paused and exhaled harshly, looking away, her expression angry. She took a slow inhale and then looked back up at him, her eyes hesitant but determined. “Look, I know – I know you haven’t been happy with me. About how I reacted when you offered to have me visit the Forest.”

Bog said nothing – what was the use of denying it? However, he couldn’t help but rub at the back of his neck, a hot flush of  _something_  there, his expression going tense.

“And…” She rubbed at her own neck, her cheeks splotchy, her eyes darting down. “I…I wanted to apologize for hurting you. I swear to the skies that was never my intention.”

Bog almost wanted to writhe, the depth of feeling in her voice made him feel so strange and conflicted and torn. Sincerity was a dangerous thing with her, it was so genuine and vast, made him feel so…

She continued, her eyes still fixed on her hands as her fingers twined around each other nervously. “You made that offer and I know it must have been a hard thing to do, what with how isolated you’ve kept the Forest –"

It had actually been the easiest thing to do, he hadn’t even stopped to think about it, and  _that’s_ what truly scared him, but Bog wasn’t about to interrupt her now.

“ – and I went and reacted like that, and…” She stopped and looked up at him, her eyes wide and honest. “It was incredibly thoughtful of you to do, and it means a lot that you extended such an honor to me, but…it’s just…” She paused and looked so conflicted, so utterly miserable.

“Ye fear my Forest.” Bog’s voice was still cool, and he crossed his arms as he surveyed her lands, so open and safe compared to his realm. He gave it a soft snarl, baring his teeth.

Queen Marianne sighed. “There’s…there’s a reason why.”

Bog looked back at her, his expression sharp with anger. “Aye, because ye’re a –"

“No, truly, there is one,” she interrupted, and Bog bit back his angry accusation at the sight of her face, open and frank and positively tormented with urgent earnestness. “I wanted to tell you, so I could explain why I –“

She paused and bit her lip, looking down at the gleaming wet floor, the hem of her dress getting increasingly damp – Bog was once again struck that something was  _different_  about her, he still couldn’t place it – before looking up at him, her expression earnest and burning. “I wanted to  _explain_  myself, not excuse myself. I know I hurt you, and I accept and apologize for that. But…” her expression become quietly pleading. “Please…hear me out.”  

And damn him, it was so tempting to just snarl out  _“No”,_  so much easier to simply fly away from her, continue to stew in his anger and resentment and scorn …

Bog sighed, and then leveled her with a hard stare before nodding at her, the meaning clear.

Queen Marianne immediately relaxed, though there was still some nervousness to her eyes. “It happened a while ago, years ago actually…” She crossed her arms and leaned against the pillar opposite of him. “You see, it was the day of my wedding, and…well, I was collecting some things, and I wasn’t paying attention, and…I flew into the Forest.”

Bog stared at her.  _“…What?”_

Queen Marianne bit her lip, and her hands rubbed at her arms, her shawl evidently no longer enough to warm her. “I…truly didn’t mean to. As soon as I realized, I tried to leave. I knew about your ban, I knew the Borders weren’t supposed to be crossed. I  _knew_  that I shouldn’t have been there. And I tried to leave, but –“ Her golden-brown eyes got dark. “A primrose petal fell into my hands. And some goblins were there, and they thought – they thought I was trying to  _take_  it, and…” a faint shiver came over her, “…and they came at me, tried to grab me, capture me…” Her voice trailed off, and her face was haunted. “I escaped, but only just barely. And since then…”

There was a faint ringing in Bog’s ears that mixed with the pounding  _thud_ of his heart, his eyes wide, and he almost swayed where he stood.  _Oh hells. Oh bloody hells, she was – she was –_

Queen Marianne ran a hand through her hair and sighed gustily, her expression weary. “So, that’s why I reacted the way I did. I don’t know if that helps –“

_“Ah don’t believe it…”_  Bog muttered, not hearing her, still numb with shock.

Queen Marianne looked at him and her eyes immediately widened as she took in his pale, stunned face. “What – Bog King, what is it?”

_“A Fairy flew into the Forest – and almost took a primrose –"_

Sweet gods, it had been  _her_.

Queen Marianne reached out a hand, concerned. “What’s the matter -?”

_“Ah…”_  Bog choked out, lifting his eyes to her, still barely believing – after all this time,  _all this bloody time_  –  _“…Ah remember ye.”_

Now it was her turn to stare at him, her large eyes going wider still in surprise.  _“…What?”_

Bog nodded dumbly, looking away, his heart thudding a queer and heavy beat in his chest. “There…there was news from the Border, a report…I always sent goblins to cut down all the primroses there during Spring, that was why –"

“Why there were so many,” Marianne whispered, her eyes fixed on his face, her cheeks pale and her hand coming up to her mouth, fingers trembling. Her voice was faint. “ _You…you knew about me?”_

Bog struggled to answer, he was still so utterly winded by such a reveal. “I…I took the matter of the primroses seriously, I had all the goblins report back any attempts to liberate a petal –"

“I didn’t try to liberate one, I – I just fell into the Forest, I swear!” Marianne’s voice was rushed, frantic, her eyes still huge as she looked up at him, desperation on her face. “I knew about the ban, I knew about what you did to the Sugar Plum, please, you have to believe –"

“I believe you,” Bog assured her, but oh  _gods_ , he could barely wrap his head around it, all this time, it had been  _her_ – if  _she_  had been captured, brought before him –

Marianne ran a shaky hand through her hair, before stealing another glance at him, her eyes large and timid. “What…what would have happened? If I  _had_ been captured?”

He looked at her, this young Fairy, and tried to imagine her, even younger and blissfully happy on the day of her wedding, only to suddenly find herself surrounded by darkness, cornered by his goblins, ferocious and fierce and protective and determined to carry out their King’s orders –

He thought of  _himself,_  how foul-tempered and bitter he got each Spring, at the constant reminder of his misery, how he would have lashed out, how he would have assumed she had been about to steal from him –

His head sank down in both horror and relief, and his rough voice was low and solemn when he spoke. “I can only say…” Bog looked up at her from under his brow, and she looked taken aback by how his eyes burned with grim somberness, “…it’s good that you  _weren’t_.”

Her swallow was faint but noticeable, and her hands twisted around her arms as if desperately trying to keep herself from shaking.

Bog stared at her, at her still keen terror, and oh gods,  _oh gods_ , no wonder she had been so –

He noted with sharp alarm that her eyes were going dark and withdrawn, that her trembling was becoming worse. He frantically tried to think of something, anything to say, to distract her –

“Is that a new dress?”

She looked at him sharply, her brow scrunching.  _“…What?!”_

“That one,” Bog said, and he gestured to it with a claw, the gesture almost a flail, and  _bloody thrice-damned hells_ , he couldn’t believe he was – “Is…is it new?”

She stared at him, her mouth opening and closing as if she had no idea how to respond to such a question. And Bog couldn’t bloody well blame her, out of all the questions to ask,  _all the things to say_  –

“Um…no…” Marianne said slowly, almost cautiously, and she looked down at the garment, a hand sweeping slowly down her bodice to the full skirt that draped gracefully to the floor. “It…it’s actually one of my older ones, I just…haven’t worn it much lately, Roland always gets after me when I wear dark colors…”

“It’s… _uh_ …nice.” Bog said lamely, and  _oh hells_ , he was such a bloody  _idiot_ , what was he even  _saying?_  He looked at it and suddenly realized just what had seemed so  _different_  about her, she was actually wearing a darker hue today, none of those pale pastels –

Bog studied her without thinking, taking in the rich, plum color of the petals that swept to the floor, clung lovingly close to her waist, and found that it  _was_  nice, very much so, what with how the hue made her pale skin glow, her dark hair shine, her eyes sparkle all the more brightly –

“I knew darker colors would suit you.”

…And today just  _had_  to be the day he could not just keep  _his bloody mouth shut_ ,  ** _didn’t it?_**

Marianne blinked up at him, thrown once more. “You…you did?”

Bog wasn’t sure if it was possibly to burn to death from sheer embarrassment, but what with how hotly he was flushing now, he had felt it was a reasonable hope to have. “ _Um, I – uh_  – I mean, I happened to… _think_ so at, uh, one point…”

_Oh gods, oh gods, let me die_  –

“Oh…um, thank you,” Marianne said slowly, passing her hand through her hair once more, fiddling with her crown. “Roland…Roland thinks they make me look too grim.”

“I should think it’s obvious by now the prat doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Bog said frankly, and gods damn it,  _really?_  What was the matter with him today? It was one thing to refer to the oaf in such terms in his thought, but out loud, to his Queen–

But a genuine, if small, smile bloomed across Marianne’s lips, and she ducked her head. “Yeah…” she said, a huff of laughter coloring her voice, and there was a faint, inexplicable flush to her cheeks. “You’d think I’d remember that.” Straightening, she glanced down at herself and gave a shrug. “I’ve always preferred dark colors, but when I became Queen, there was the…general opinion that I should dress more befitting for a Fairy. Dark things belonged to –" She stopped, and this time her flush covered her whole face.

“My world,” Bog finished, faintly dry, finding himself quite recovered from his earlier humiliation.

Marianne scratched at her neck, her eyes darting away. “It’s – it’s dumb, I know, and I wouldn’t have cared, but I had to put my Kingdom first and  _everything_  I do is talked about here. The smallest thing can have the biggest consequences, and…if I dressed in a way that meant my subjects couldn’t be proud of having me as their Queen –"

Bog shook his head, torn between wonder and disgust that something as ridiculous as  _clothes_  could warrant such scrutiny and importance. Something else bothered him though. “You said they” –  _Roland_ – “wanted you to dress more befitting for a Fairy?”

Marianne looked away, a faint pucker coming to her brow. “Yes, they did.” 

Bog gestured to her, confused. “But…you  _are_  a Fairy.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wary. “Yes…?”

“So you already  _were_  dressing in a manner befitting a Fairy, weren’t you? At least, a Fairy such as yourself.” Bog sighed and grimaced, utterly lost.  _This_  is why the majority of  goblins didn’t fuss with clothing, it was so much simpler.  “I…I’m sorry, but I just don’t understand it.”

Marianne gazed up at him, her eyes traveling over his face, his genuine confusion, and she suddenly chuckled, shaking her head gently. “You know what? Neither do I.”  

Bog wasn’t sure what was so amusing, but was happy to see her smiling again, her intense panic over remembering the day she had encountered his Forest well faded. Though…now that he knew the reasons for her fear, he had to wonder…

He looked at her a bit hesitantly. “Would…would you mind if I asked you a question?”

“You just did,” Marianne said, her eyes mischievous, and she grinned when he grimaced at her. “But you can ask me another one, sure.”

He took a deep breath. “If…if the Forest so frightens you…why reach out for diplomacy?”

She sobered a bit at that, biting her lip and looking away from him, her gaze considering and solemn. When she looked up at him, her expression was frank. “Because my Kingdom comes before me,” she said simply.

Bog felt a faint thrill of awe as he looked at her, this young Queen with her fire and her fear and her vast determination. Gods, but she was something else – first bearing her husband’s infidelity, then braving the horrors of her past to secure diplomacy and connection, all for a Kingdom that would have her be an outcast…

He shook his head wonderingly before he spoke, his voice soft and emphatic. “You truly  _are_  a tough one…”

She immediately shook her head, though she smiled wryly. “No, I’m – I’m really not. When I first delivered that letter to the Borders…I thought I could be brave enough to go beyond the brambles, to walk up to the edge and go past it, but…” Marianne’s eyes went withdrawn again, and Bog looked at her, concerned. If she started to panic once more…

Her voice was soft as she continued, but she otherwise seemed quite calm. “I thought I could handle that, it was nothing big, but…as soon as I got close, it was like I was reliving it, like it was happening all over again.” She shook her head softly and looked at him, a shameful glint in her eyes. “It was all I could do just to put the letter in the brambles before flying away as fast as I could.” Her slender shoulders slumped. “That’s…that’s not tough.”

Bog shook his head. “I can think of nothing that could be more so.” She went to open her mouth and he fixed her with a stern look. “I don’t give out empty compliments, either.”

While she didn’t appear entirely convinced, Marianne’s shoulders rose out of their slump and her eyes looked more clear, none of the haze of old fear in them. She gave him a soft-edged smile before she suddenly looked out the window. “Hey…rain’s stopped.”   

Bog looked over, surprised. So it had. The Fields were now pearly with raindrops, the sky beginning to fade into a soft, dusky blue. Evening would soon be coming, he best get back to the Forest…

He arched a brow Marianne. “Will the Council have the meeting called back, do you think?”

Marianne shook her head. “Not when it’s so close to dinner. They’ll reschedule, they’ve done it before.” She grinned. “You’re free to make your escape, as soon as you get the rest of your group together.” Her brow creased. “How were they with the storm?”

“Fine,” Bog said, carelessly waving a hand. “I left them in one of your studies, they were content to read the texts there.”

Marianne gave a start. “ _Oh!_  That reminds me! I had meant to ask you before, but since, well, since you were…” she paused and shrugged, “… _reluctant_  to talk to me, I never got the chance.”

Bog raised a brow at her. “What is it?”

Queen Marianne shrugged off her shawl and folded it over an arm. “The time for our Harvest is still a ways off, but as soon as we have our celebrations for it out of the way, Roland will be leaving to take a trip to the outposts we have beyond the Fields. Most of the Council will be accompanying him. They end up at the Southern Fairy Empire, where I join him for the Winter.” Marianne shrugged, rolling her eyes a bit. “It was the closest thing we had to diplomacy before you, so it’s quite a big deal. But, the point is, as soon as the leaves start turning, Roland will be gone.”

Bog felt a strange sense of relief and confusion. He had always enjoyed Harvest time, the transformation of blistering Summer into cool Fall, and now here was an added bonus. But…

“What will this mean for our diplomacy?” He rolled a shoulder back, feeling tense. “Will it be brought to a close for that time?” There wasn’t much of a point to the Council meetings when the Fairy King was gone…

But Marianne shook her head, her eyes both eager and nervous. “No, you see, I thought about that. There’s no reason for us to stop meeting with the other councilors while Roland is away. The Kingdom will still have its Queen.” She tossed her head, her eyes gleaming defiantly. “I’ve managed the Harvest season by myself before, I can manage the meetings now.” The slight smile she gave him was rather sly. “And the members who will be left behind will be those who don’t mindlessly echo Roland on every viewpoint. I say…”

“…We take advantage of that,” Bog finished, and  _oh,_  wasn’t she a devious one? Gods, it was good that they were on the same side, he’d have hate to have her as an enemy. He grinned at her, sharp and commiserating. _"Clever girl."_  

She laughed, and it rang bell-like and bright off the stone. “Don’t you mean  _conniving?”_

“Either is appropriate.” Bog took in her triumphant eyes and grin, looked at this fierce Fairy who was so very pleased with her cleverness, so delighted at his praise, so unabashedly happy…

There was a sudden, strange sensation in his chest, almost as if something had clenched around his heart –

He ignored it and focused on her. “So we’ll be continuing the meetings until Winter?”

“Until I have to lead our Migration, yes.” Marianne nodded, and then paused, looking a bit nervous. “But…there’s something else I wanted to see if you’d be open to.”

Bog went tense but nodded, slow and wary. “Aye…?”

“You know we have studies here, but…there’s one that’s sort of our main one, the Library for the whole Palace. It holds all our maps, our texts, all of the royal records – if you want to find something out about our history, it’s there.” Her fingers picked at the moss of her shawl, and she gave him a shy look. “I was thinking…you and I could start meeting there on our own? It would give us a chance to talk more freely, I’d be able to show you what we have…maybe we could see if there are more links between the Kingdoms, more connections we could use.” She shrugged, clearly trying for casualness. “We wouldn’t even have to wait until Council meetings to talk to each other, get work done…” 

Bog looked at her, stunned. “You…you would  _want_ to do that?”

_You would want to spend more time with me?_

Marianne looked at him, also surprised. “I’m asking you, aren’t I?”

“Aye, but – I-” Bog fumbled, trying to put his jumbled thoughts into words. “It’s just…surprising, that’s all…”

Marianne tilted her head at him, the amber of her gaze clear and forthright. “Not really,” she said honestly. “I mean…you offered to have me visit the Forest. Can’t I offer you the same hospitality?”

Bog squinted at her shrewdly. “Is this some misplaced way of apologizing?”

“I already apologized,” Marianne retorted, but a grin colored her voice with warmth. “I wouldn’t offer such a thing lightly.” Her voice grew softer, her eyes flitting down. “I just…I think it would be nice, you know? Being able to talk with you more.”

Her shy admission went through Bog like an arrow, making him need to inhale.  _Gods, no one ever sought out his company –_

“Aye.”

Queen Marianne’s head shot up, her eyes wide, and Bog hadn’t meant to say it out loud, hadn’t meant to seem like he wasn’t thinking it through, but he found he couldn’t regret it. “Aye, that…” he nodded awkwardly, but his gaze was filled with the same shy eagerness that hers had had as he looked at her, “…that does sound…nice _.”_

Her grin was like the sun breaking through the clouds, bright and sudden and flooding everything with warmth, and Bog suddenly felt far more than simply  _nice_  when faced with  _that_ , he felt -

“Okay,” Queen Marianne said, her expression almost giddy. “So…we can do that. I can - ” she paused and looked once more out the window, and she faltered a bit. “Uh, well, I guess I can’t show you the Library what with how late it is, but…next time?”

Bog let out a soft exhale of laughter. She looked so bloody happy, so full of eagerness, and his voice was warm when he spoke. “Aye, next time.” A sudden thought came to him. “And…perhaps…one day you  _can_  visit the Forest.”

She opened her mouth, and Bog hastened to continue. “Not now, not for a while of course, but…” He looked at her, and his voice was soft. “The offer is always there, if you would ever want to. I would make sure no harm would come to you.”

She stilled and looked at him, before biting her lip and looking away. But Bog could see it was not panic in her eyes, but thoughtful consideration, and when she spoke, her voice was low and contemplative. “I suppose…it would be more reassuring to know  _you_  were there…”

Something sparked in Bog at that, and he let out a faint, embarrassed laugh, scratching at his neck with a claw. “I’ve…never been the cause of reassurance before. The Bog King of the Dark Forest is the reason why my land is feared –“

“Nonetheless,” Marianne said, her smile gentle and teasing and her eyes clear, “it’s the truth.” She hugged her shawl closer to her and gave him a tiny shrug, and her gaze was almost soft as she looked at him. “I fear the Forest. I’m not afraid of you.”

Bog, quite simply, had no idea how to respond to that.

_“Not afraid of you…”_

_Gods, would she **ever**  stop surprising him, stealing his words and breath away?_

She flushed a bit under as he stared at her, and looked out the window once more. “I should probably should start getting changed for dinner…”

Bog started and immediately burned as he realized just how he had been gaping at her. “Ah,  _right_. Good idea. I should…go gather my people, we best be leaving soon…”

“Of course,” Marianne said, and she gathered her skirts up, the hem dripping a bit. The hazel of her eyes had a new glint to them, something that if Bog didn’t know any better he might have called affectionate. “I think it’s safe to say the storm has passed.” She walked past him, and before he even knew it, touched his arm in a gesture of farewell, unguarded and unthinking. Her smile was one-sided and warm. “I’ll see you soon.”

Bog watched her go, and one hand absentmindedly drifted to the arm she had touched, rubbing the spot gently. He exhaled, inexplicably feeling a sense of relief, of something almost akin to thankfulness…

They were talking again, would start meeting more, each of them sharing the lore of their lands…

Once again…they understood each other.

_“I think it’s safe to say the storm has passed…”_

Bog looked out to the rain-washed Fields and betrayed a slight smile.

Indeed it had.


	8. Chapter Seven

_**Chapter Seven** _

There was a certain luster to the sun as it set, a burnish of gold and a shimmering orange that was distinctly unique to Autumn evenings. Earlier the sky had been a vibrant shade of bright blue that had practically pulsed with the steady thrum of a season where both life and decay met in equal parts.

But now a soft purple dusk stole over the sky and amongst the swath of clouds, their vast banks stained marigold and saffron, dusted rose and amethyst. The radiance of the sunset was fading, the earlier brilliant, basking glow now reduced to a soft, glimmering haze that tinted bark and traced leaves, a warm gold that glossed across petals of delicate petals of flowers still stubborn enough to cling to the earth despite the approaching chill. Both Forest and Field had been transformed, cast in copper and edged in amber, the day departing in a blaze of glory.

Now the grasses of the Fields were blue-gray with shadows, the Forest’s changing foliage returning to their usual inky pitch from the deepening gloom. A strong wind gusted through swaying grass and rustling leaves alike, carving a whispering, whistling path, crisp and cool and carrying the smoky smell of dry leaves and potency of damp soil, rich with rot.  The chill in the air sharpened the scent, heightened all senses. Fall had finally come to both Kingdoms, and the Harvest was upon them.

Bog surveyed what land he could see from his corner and let out a rough sigh, gusting like the wind but rich with annoyed acceptance rather than invigorating crispness.  _And of **course**  that meant another bloody Ball…_

He looked around the ballroom, once more grimly thankful that he had been able secure a new corner, this one nearer to the windows that stretched along the wall. Vast and arching things that they were - large enough to use as doors to the long stretch of balcony beyond the room - he could have easily been able to see the edge of his Forest from his former corner, but the need to feel the cool evening air across his scales in order to stomach this affair would not be denied.

He scanned the room once more, his low brow and stern set to his jaw doing nothing to disguise the sheer fatigue in his eyes. Gods, how many balls could a Kingdom  _have?_  Small wonder Queen Marianne had professed her wariness with them.  _“We love our galas over here to an almost exhausting degree.”_

Bog resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead settling on giving a sharp  _crack_ to his neck. She hadn’t been lying, that was for certain.  Every blasted thing  _had_  to be celebrated over here – simple gratitude for a good haul at Harvest wasn’t enough, oh  _no,_  there  _had_  to be a song and dance about it –

Though if he were to be completely honest, if there was anything Bog would have been willing to celebrate, it was Roland’s departure. Technically, this  _was_  a farewell party. 

Bog hadn’t bothered to make an early appearance like last time, knowing it was just as well for him to have the monarch of the Fairy Kingdom see him arrive late – his attendance would be marked, and he wouldn’t have to suffer the prat for long. In fact, one could say it a parting gift of sorts – Roland would now have ample means in which to throw mockery at the dark, party scorning King, justification to carry on about how the grim Goblin was so  _dismissive_  towards such beloved celebrations. 

Like Bog could give a damn. It wasn’t as if it  _wasn’t_  the truth. The unspoken pressure to enjoy oneself at such events merely made it certain that he absolutely would  _not_. Besides, he had never had the patience nor the skill at the cloying, shallow charm one needed to survive such affairs, a charm that Roland possessed in abundance.

Bog growled to himself. Let the fluttering fool have his bloody Ball – Bog was more than content with the knowledge that he had the idiot beat when it came to sparring. Besides, it wasn’t like he was utterly alone in his disdain for such things; there was good company to be had in shared loathing…

Although…

Bog paused in his deepening grousing to scan the room once more, eyes getting wary. Now that he thought of it…he had yet to see Queen Marianne all evening.

He was sure she was present, if only for her dedication in attending such important events for her Kingdom. And what with him arriving late – Muggon had protested long and loud over the supposed necessity of his presence at such a frivolous affair, Bloodwart huddled next to Stuff and Thang and miserable with acceptance – it was only natural that he had hadn’t seen her. He could only hope that he hadn’t missed her entirely…

_And that her wretch of a husband hasn’t made her bloody her knuckles once more…_

Bog scowled, worry giving it an even more ragged edge. There was no need to jump to conclusions, no need to get brash – he was just on edge from the party –

A great gale of laughter rang through the vast room, another chorus of  _“To King Roland!”_  and a smattering of applause echoing up to the glittering ceiling. 

Bog sighed. _Small wonder he was…_

He cut narrowed eyes over to the pillar where the golden dolt stood, surrounded by fawning admirers, grinning that glinting, infuriating grin. One gray haired nobleman from the Council clapped his hand on an armored shoulder, and a bevy of young maidens clustered nearby, giggling and murmuring was they watched the young and handsome King with bright eyes, some of which had a distinct gleam of hunger. The redheaded wench was amongst them…

Roland spread his arms, gleaming in his armor like some captured bit of sun, as if to envelop the waves of adoration in his embrace, his arms cold and hard with bright metal. He uttered some unheard words with a look of supreme self-satisfaction, and another wave of laughter rolled across the room. Roland joined in merrily, his teeth shining.

Bog eyes ached at the sight, a pain that was soon echoed in his head, his scowl deepening until it was nearly a snarl. Gods, even across the room, the imbecile was infuriating, his fine spirits as good as a personal affront to Bog. Apparently departing the Kingdom for the Fall was no great sacrifice on Roland’s part, especially when it included an evening of fairies falling over themselves to fan the flames of his ego. Never mind that he would be leaving the concerns of his subjects behind, escaping to warmer weather as they shivered in the cold…

Leaving his Queen, which would give him ample time to chase after new conquests, not having to worry about avoiding suspicion.

_Small wonder the faithless maggot is so damned eager to go -_

Bog growled low in his throat, and pushed himself away from his corner to stalk to one of the windows, his wings twitching in vast irritation. To hells with it, he cared not if it was an escape or a tactical retreat; he had to get away from the stuffy confines of the room, away from  _him_. 

The change from the ballroom to the night air was almost shocking, the sweltering heat of so many bodies a vast difference from the cool embrace of night across his hide. Bog immediately felt his mood begin to shift, and lifted his face as a whisper of a breeze chased over the Fields and skirting along the gilded edge of the balcony, the stone carved and worn away into polished smoothness. His eyes took in the sky, some remnants of the sunset giving it a faint glow in the purple twilight, before he closed them and exhaled, long and slow, feeling tension drain from his as sure as sap from a tree. Gods, he should have gotten away sooner, he hadn’t realized he had been suffocating so…

He had never cared for parties. The same had been true in his youth, but at least he had been able to feign the cocky arrogance that was expected of the Bog Prince, whipping his subjects up into a fine frenzy. But he had told Marianne the truth; goblins  _didn’t_  have parties as fairies did. One couldn’t be wild and free and easy at these affairs, not when every move drew attention.

And his was a position that demanded extra care and garnered even more judgment. He wasn’t the lone Goblin here, true, but as King…

Bog crossed to the edge of the balcony, keeping his eye on how the dim sunlight and deepening shadow stained the tops of the trees of his Forest. These affairs served as a potent reminder of the sheer difference between his Kingdom and this one, the still vast gap between his people and those of the Light Fields. Harvest was here, the diplomacy well under way, and yet…

_He was still deemed a danger, still deemed unapproachable._

Bog scowled. He was not some callow youth, to fall so easily into  _loneliness_. He didn’t even  _want_  to associate with the wretches in the first place, especially after witnessing their slavish devotion to such a fool of a King…

But he would have thought by  _now_ , at the very least…

Bog sighed, leaning his hands on the balcony’s banister. This wasn’t about him, wasn’t about anything as ridiculous as feeling slighted or shunned by shallow fools. He was a King, and the Kingdom came first. If he was still seen as a threat, what did that mean for the other goblins, for his whole realm?

Bog bowed his head, frowning at the thrum of his thoughts. “ _Enough nonsense_ ,” he muttered, his voice a soft growl in the gathering darkness.

“Couldn’t agree more, your majesty.”

Bog started with an oath, looking up sharply into the shadows. The light from the ballroom spilled out of the doors in a small glow of gold, illuminating Queen Marianne standing against the eastern wall of the balcony. Her dark eyes had a strange glint to them that he had never seen, the fierce luster of them muted, and the wry smile she gave him verged on a smirk. “Let me guess, that’s why you escaped the party, right?”

Bog slowly nodded as he took his time making his way over to her, hoping that his face didn’t display how hard his heart was still hammering. Hells, this was the  _third_  time she had caught him unawares. “Aye. Though I wouldn’t use the term  _escape_.”

She gave a hum, her smile still balancing on a knife’s edge between amused and hard, her eyes looking away from him. “ _Hmm_ …escape, retreat, what have you…as long as it gets you away from there, it doesn’t matter. You’re  _free.”_

She put a soft hiss into the word, dragging vowels through her teeth, and Bog cocked his head as he took her in.

Something was… _off_ about her. She looked the same, soft hair and fair hide and delicate wings, but the air she was giving off was unlike any mood he had ever seen the young Queen in. Angry, but muted, almost muzzled. He frowned – whatever it was, he didn’t care for it. The fire and flint of rage was vastly better than whatever  _this_  was.

_At least she’s not crying._

He grimaced at the thought and tried to focus upon Marianne as she stood before him now, caught between warm light and shadow, not the remembered sight of her alone in moonlight and darkness…

Marianne continued on, either ignoring or not noticing his silent scrutiny. “I mean, heck,  _I’m_  out here, so I’m definitely not blaming you. You probably have more of a legitimate excuse for wanting to leave, anyway.” She leaned her elbows upon the banister and gave him frank look, both shrewd and commiserating. “Is Roland still being an ass?”

Bog let out a bark of laughter, rather shocked to hear her use such blunt language. “Not directly, at least.”

“Small mercies,” Marianne returned, her smile softening a bit as she looked at him. “ _Was_  it because of him, though?”

Bog shrugged a shoulder, aiming for carelessness. “Somewhat. It appears even at a distance, he can be grating.” Marianne chuckled and he gave her a slant of a smile before continuing. “That and –" he stopped, flushing.

Marianne raised her brows inquiringly, leaning to him. “And…?”

 _Your people continue to avoid me._   Bog crushed the thought as thoroughly as he could, clearing his throat. “And I’ve – I’ve never cared for parties. Much like yourself.”

Marianne watched him, her eyes still having that strange haze, almost glazed. They traveled over his face, as if trying to ascertain some deeper meaning to his words, and Bog looked away, biting down on a grimace. Hells, was he really  _so_  obvious?

“Yeah…” she said softly, before looking down and giving a self-conscious laugh. “Here’s to us, right?” Bog gave a snort at the familiar words, and though Marianne’s smile was warm, her eyes held a glint of some secret pain. “At least we’re in good company, huh?”

Bog gave a wry half smile in return, and Marianne’s chuckle was just above an exhale. She then picked up the full, flowing skirt of her dress and moved down the wall a bit, her intent obvious.

Bog was still caught between surprise and uncertainty at the gesture, fumbling a bit before joining her at the banister. He leaned against it, too tall for the Fairy-made wall to comfortably put his elbows upon it. He had no intention of adding a backache to his multitude of discomforts from tonight.

The ensuing silence was soft and companionable, both of them looking over the dusky landscape. What with how much time had passed and their meetings in the Library, Bog felt it was safe to say that there was no longer any pressure or tension in keeping the calm of quiet between them.  _Rare when you can find that in another…_

Marianne sighed, gentle as the evening breeze, shoulders hunched high and back sloping, her wings flowing down to join the graceful draping of her skirts. Bog studied her expression as subtly as he could, curiosity and concern in his eyes. She didn’t seem to have the same soft simmer of anger to her, but now her silence was reflective, the look in her large eyes deep and introspective, and Bog knew the danger of such a thing if not kept in check.

His eyes flitted over her form as he cast about for something to say, and then frowned. Her strange mood had distracted him from fully taking her in, but now he saw that her whole apparel was… _odd_. Her hair was swept up, the normally flyaway locks combed into a neat twist, twined with small, golden flowers and held in place by her crown. And her gown…

It was a bright yellow, glowing out of the darkness like beacon. The fabric of it was strange and textured, almost fluttery in the gentle wind. Her back was covered but her front was almost completely exposed, only the slenderest of straps crossing over her shoulders, the most tender breath of wind capable of making them fall. The long, slender column of her neck would have been bared as well if it had not been a large, ornate necklace that climbed up it, golden and glittering and ostentatious, cold metal vines and leaves winding around her throat, small, glinting jewels inlaid to depict flower petals.   

Bog grimaced. It must have weighed terribly, tight and confining. It didn’t suit her at all, none of it did.  _Too bright, too shiny, too cold._  She looked damn near forced into such a getup, why…?

Far too late, Bog realized that Marianne was watching him watch her, hazel eyes hooded but keen as she took in the faint edge of distaste twisting his mouth. He hastily looked away, his cheeks once more burning, but she merely arched a brow at him before nodding down at her gown. “What do you think?” 

Bog decided that vague truthfulness was his best course, and waved a claw at her in an encompassing gesture, struggling for the right word. “It’s… _interesting_.”  

Marianne snorted, pursing her lips as she turned towards him, smoothing slender hands down the bodice. “ _Hmmph._  You can thank Roland for it.” At Bog’s obvious befuddlement she waved a hand, the gesture dismissive. “Buttercups. Technically they’re out of season, but we have ways in which to preserve petals that keep the bloom of them. So, I get a whole dress made out of ‘em.” She laughed, soft and bitter. “‘Cause of his nickname for me, y’know? Everyone thought it was  _terribly_  romantic.” She crossed her arms and looked back at the ballroom, her face full of tired disgust. “Another way for the King to show  _devotion_  to his Queen.”

Bog stared at her, shocked into silence and looking at the dress with wide eyes, a nauseated burn in the back of his throat.  _A claim of ownership, an unnecessary boast masquerading as romance, as good as a taunt –_

Marianne bit her lip as she took in his reaction, her eyes still rather hazy. She quickly rolled them and shrugged a shoulder, determinedly blasé. “Funny thing is, I used to be able to get away with dressing in dark gowns for this. People thought I was  _mourning_  him going, y’know?” She gave another hard laugh, then trailed off, her face getting withdrawn. “But then Roland started saying  _he_  ought to choose the gown I wore to his last ball with me. As a  _good-bye present._ ” She snorted, turning her back on the ballroom. “Never mind that he hasn’t made any attempt to keep me by his side…”  

Bog remained silent, still staring at the garment. He was still learning about Fairy fashion, but was beginning to understand the sheer importance that such things played. They were statements of sorts, almost declarations, and this one…

_Bright and grandiose, calling any and all attention to it…_

It seemed so  _obvious_ now that he knew. Roland’s need to exert his power had never been more blatant. Nor more insulting…

_Wearing a crown isn’t enough, he has to transform his Queen into a bauble to flash about as well -_

Bog shook his head in disgusted contempt, before focusing on Marianne’s words. “You don’t seem too fussed by that,” he noted, a faint dryness to his tone.  _Not that I blame you._

Marianne shrugged, her expression once again wry. “True. Still sucks that I have to wear this monstrosity.” She looked over the shadows that wound in and out of the grass of her Fields, eyes pensive. Her voice was a soft murmur. “It’s funny…I can’t stomach being near him, and yet…it still hurts that I’m so  _easy_  to ignore. No one has noticed my absence yet, I bet. Tonight’s all about him.”

 _I noticed._  Bog knew better than to say that, what with the soft rawness to her voice – she would undoubtedly take it as pity. He arched a brow at her. “Is that why  _you_  left?”

She smirked softly, her eyes still on the Fields. “That, and as an act of mercy.” Bog’s brows knit in bewilderment and she laughed, rubbing a hand at the back of her neck, her voice somewhere between amused and tired and scornful. “Apparently having your Queen down drink after drink each time someone talks about how much you’ll  _pine_  for each other in the coming months is somewhat embarrassing.”

It was at that moment that Bog saw the wineglass perched upon the edge of the balcony, full of a liquid that shone like a garnet in the dim light of the evening, ruby-bright and intoxicating. His eyes darted between it and the young Fairy Queen, taking in the muted glow to her eyes, the flush tinting both her cheeks and the tips of her ears, her moody undercurrent of thwarted discontent, simmering frustration and undisguised bitterness.  _Ah._  

Bog looked away, a fierce flush of discomfort itching up his back, burning between his wings. He knew such a thing was not uncommon, seeking solace by drowning ones sorrows. He had personally never attempted to, knowing full well the dangerous dependency that could develop. His pain, his heartbreak…it had always been brutally clear. There may have been the temptation to  _release_  it –

_\- shattered glass, roaring as fiery pain lanced across his palm, almost sweet in how it distracted him from his raw, bloody heart –_

But dulling it with drink? Never.

Bog glanced back at Marianne, and felt a fierce throb of concern in his chest. He could only hope that this wasn’t a usual habit of hers…

There was a low, throaty chuckle. Bog looked up at Marianne as she grinned at him, picking up her goblet. “Don’t worry – Fairy Wine isn’t  _terribly_ potent. Honestly, I don’t indulge all that much - Roland’s the one who usually ends up wasted at parties. I figure my subjects ought to have one sober ruler.” She gave him a little toast, and her smile was hard with mockery. “This is just my third glass for the evening.”

“How many glasses  _will_  there be?” Bog asked bluntly, any usual awkwardness edged out by concern. To hells if he came off as disapproving, she was better than that, better than  _him_  -  

Marianne paused at his query and his tone, before giving her lips a lick and setting her glass down, the glass meeting the stone with a soft  _plink_. “That depends,” she returned, giving him a frank look. “Keep talking to me and it might stay three.”

Bog gave a rough laugh. “You needn’t resort to coercion to have me talk with you –"

Marianne laughed, and this one was the gentlest she had given all evening, softer, almost affectionate. “ _Right_. Sorry. Force of habit, negotiating with Kings –"

“Says the Queen who lured me to this Kingdom in the first place with false pretenses,” Bog said dryly, leaning back on the wall, biting down on a smile.

“I apologized for that  _how_  many times?” Marianne aimed a scowl at him, but her eyes were getting clear and sharp with their banter, brightening with playfulness. She propped her elbows up once more on the banister, informal and easy. “Besides, it worked out in the end, didn’t it?”

Bog was about to agree when he suddenly thought back to tonight’s party and the Spring Ball so long ago, the shunning and disgust and fear over his presence at both.  _All that time between them, and still_ …

He gave his head a quick shake. “Aye…though the end is far off.”

Marianne looked at him, a considering furrow to her brow, her grin fading. Suddenly, she placed a hand on his forearm. “I know that the majority of the fairies are still nervous around you and your subjects,” she said quietly. Her eyes were achingly sincere and earnest. “Roland’s influence is hard to shake. But believe me, you  _do_  have supporters here. Dawn’s told me. The elves and the pixies and others heard how you thought there would be representatives for them on the Council. They’ve been wanting representation for a while now – they’re not gonna forget that.” She shrugged a shoulder, one strap falling. She moved her hand a way to adjust it, dark lashes fanning across pink cheeks before looking back up at him. “That’s where your support should come from anyway – from the overlooked masses, not a few snobs.”

Bog took her in, her flushed face tilted up to his like a determined blossom seeking the sun, her eyes bright and sincere, her careless finery and frills, and was once again quietly astounded by her. A Queen bereft in her own court and so very  _different_  from what he had expected all that time ago, when all of this began…

The gentle press of her palm on his hide still echoed through him, and there was no reply he could give that wouldn’t reveal just how deep her words went –

_Evasive maneuvers._

He cleared his throat before and pointing a claw at hers. “Another token from your King?”

Marianne looked down at the necklace and gave a grumble. “Isn’t it obvious? I  _hate_ wearing jewelry like this, it makes me feel like I can’t fly, it’s so heavy. Never mind how it chokes me.” She passed a hand over the ornate metalwork and sneered, baring her teeth. “Such a  _lovely_  collar, isn’t it?”

Bog’s mouth opened then snapped close, and he looked away awkwardly, not sure how to respond to such open bitterness, such undisguised anger. He was used to her comments about her husband, but  _this_  was something darker, the wine unleashing truth in all its wrathful glory –

_Such truthfulness could be dangerous in front of the wrong people -_

He was still fumbling for a reply when Marianne heaved a sigh, so long and deep it seemed to come from her bones. She passed a hand over her hair, mussing the carefully arranged locks and dislodging a few of the tiny flowers, her crown sent slightly askew by the rough gesture.

“Sorry,” she muttered, her voice low and her eyes down. “I keep doing that, letting my mouth get away from me.” Her shoulders slumped and she crossed her arms in front of her, hugging herself tight, and she looked so  _small_  just then, none of her usual spunk or fire to build her up. “I know I shouldn’t, I  _do_ , just…just letting myself  _go_  like that, but…I keep doing it.”

She paused and then gave a small laugh, soft and with an edge of amazement to it. “And it’s always around  _you_.  _Always.”_  She looked at him and squinted her eyes, the amber of them thoughtful slits. “Why is that?” 

Bog was rendered silent once more at such an admission, and he looked away, his mind and chest both in turmoil.  _Why indeed?_

Why confide in  _him_ , a Goblin, the dreaded and grim and notoriously reclusive Bog King? Why deem  _him_  the recipient to the release of her frustrations, her painful confessions? Why leave herself so open to the danger of vulnerability to a creature so vastly  _different?_   

…And why was  _he_  so open with  _her?_

He was still consumed by the thicket of his thoughts when Marianne continued on, her eyes once more fixed to the floor and her cheeks vividly pink with drink and mortification. “Um, anyways – I know it’s a lot. To hear. And, um, to deal with.” She glanced up at him, and her eyes gleamed contritely. “And I’m sorry.  I would never want to make you feel uncomfortable or…or  _bore_  you. It’s just…” She sighed and looked away, the slender line of her shoulders rolling into a hunch. “Sometimes I feel like I…like I haven’t been able to actually  _talk_ , not for the longest time. Not to anyone, not even Dawn. And you just make it so easy –"

She stopped, and her cheeks glowed even more intensely, and she went to scrub a hand at the back of her neck before remembering the necklace there. She dropped her hand with a brief scowl, then darted uncharacteristically timid eyes that him. “Regardless…I apologize. This whole party has me in a funk.”  She looked down at her wineglass and gave a snort before seizing it. “And the wine obviously isn’t helping,” she said dryly, pouring it out in a fine red stream to the shadowy gardens below before setting it back down with a sharp  _clink._

“Aye, perhaps…” Bog said slowly, thankful that he had  _finally_  found his voice. He then looked her straight on, adjusting himself against the banister accordingly. His voice was low and frank and sincere. “Though there’s no need to apologize when you’ve done no wrong.”

Marianne ducked her head at that, folding her arms back around herself, and Bog continued on, his voice getting softer. “You needn’t worry about letting yourself truly be…” he paused, struggling for the right words, “be…be  _you_. There’s no shame in that.”

“There’s not,” Marianne agreed quietly. “But when the Kingdom comes first –"

“You don’t serve your Kingdom by –" He stopped himself just in time.  _By killing yourself with misery._

The words were true, but…all Marianne  _had_  was her Kingdom, her duty to it the only thing that had allowed her to survive her marriage. He would not be so cruel as to demean her sacrifice.

Marianne arched a brow at him, waiting for him to continue, and Bog swiftly thought of another approach, long ago words from his mother coming back to him. “Some say that a Kingdom is only as sound as its foundations. One pillar alone can’t support it.” He shrugged a shoulder, his scales shifting. It was a sentiment he wasn’t sure he agreed with –  _he_  had ruled his Kingdom alone, and he was fine.

But Marianne’s situation –  _and heartbreak_  – was different from his own. Who was he to judge where she took her comfort?

He continued on, watching her carefully. “They say that the weight of a burden is best if shared evenly.” His voice softened. “Even if the pillar  _is_  an extraordinarily strong one.”

Marianne’s eyes darted away and her cheeks grew pinker, and for the life of him Bog couldn’t tell if it was due to anger at the implication that she couldn’t bear her struggle alone or at such an awkward attempt at comfort. He felt a furl of embarrassment pass through him -  _this_  was why he tried to avoid metaphors -  

His earlier thought came back to him, worry making his guts twist anew. “Though… there  _is_  the fact that being so… _honest_  in front of some people can be –"

“ _Dangerous_ ,” Marianne finished, her expression grim with understanding and acceptance. “Believe me, I know.” She gave him a one-sided smile, some sharpness lingering to it, and her eyes got dull with unhappiness. “Don’t worry, I have practice with keeping things in –"

“But that’s not to say that it’s  _right,”_  Bog said with quiet urgency, moving closer to her. “Nor that you can’t be free to talk honestly at all.”

She looked up at him sharply, her eyes wide, and Bog was struck once more by how  _large_  they were, how  _brilliant_  their hazel was, caught in the glow of dusk –

Despite the gaudy gown and awful necklace, the play of shadows and light across her face was truly - 

He shook off the strange musing before it could finish and persevered to continue on. “Showing your true opinions of the King in front of your courtiers isn’t wise, aye. But…” His voice grew gentle. “…You needn’t worry about being honest - being  _yourself_  - around me. I swear to you, there’s no danger there.”

Marianne eyes flickered over his face, taking in his deep sincerity, her expression strangely spellbound. Her gaze, wandering over his features, paused inexplicably at his lips, and Bog wondered if she was weighing the truth of words given from such a  _beastly_  mouth…

He then remembered her other words and smirked a bit. “Nor need you ever worry about being  _boring_. I highly doubt such a thing is possible.”

Marianne started a bit and then gave a somewhat shaky chuckle, her eyes flicking to the floor, and Bog’s smirk grew soft. So bold, and yet so unsure, ferocity and fragility combined.  _So many contradictions, all in that wee body…_

He looked back over the Fields and sighed as he took in the sight, the breeze purring over the swaying grass. “For what it’s worth, I believe no one would blame you for being in a state tonight.” He looked back at the ballroom and gave a small growl of distaste. “It truly is a shame to spoil such an evening with a  _party_ …” He muttered, returning his gaze to the far pleasanter sight of twilight.  _Especially one given in your husband’s honor._

Marianne hummed in agreement, looking off at the same sight. “Sunsets like that are one of the reasons I love dusk so much.” She gave a small, sudden laugh. “Though I guess you could say that sunrise and sunset are both my favorite parts of the day. The day just starting, and the day finally ending, each full of promise.”

Bog cocked his head at that, curious. “ _Promise?”_

She smiled, soft and secret. “In a small way…you get to start over.”

Bog reflected on that before glancing back up at the darkening sky, a few bright pinpricks of stars now visible in the velvety stretch of blue-violet sky. “We don’t get to see sunrises in the Forest, nor sunsets. Any light from either barely makes it past the leaves.” He looked over at his domain and smiled, reminiscent and fond. “But the leaves change so much, it’s almost as good as one. We always look forward to that…”  

Marianne leaned back on the banister, her eyes curious. “Goblins enjoy the Harvest time?”

“While I can’t speak for my subjects,” Bog said somewhat dryly, “I always have.”

Marianne hummed. “ _Mmm_ , me too. Spring is my favorite season, but Fall…Fall is something special. There’s that  _feel_  to the air, y’know?”

Bog nodded, his smile stretching into a grin. “ _Aye_. Nothing compares to flying then, the smell of everything rotting –"

Marianne laughed. “ _Huh_. Never thought of it like  _that._  Rot and goblins…” she mused, before sending a him teasing look. “Small wonder you like it, right?”

Some part of him protested that he should growl at that, but Bog knew her well enough by now to know that Marianne’s teasing never had any true maliciousness to it. Even now, there was a purity to the gleam in her amber eyes that compelled him not to snarl but smirk at her. “Fair enough. But Spring…” he gave a shudder, his wings twitching in disgust. “Gods, why is  _that_  your favorite season?”

“It’s when I get to come home,” Marianne said simply. “Winter is over, and I don’t have to be cooped up with Rol-" She stopped and flushed, before continuing. “Well…anyways, it’s nice to get back.” She sighed, a bit rueful. “I’d like to think that even if it wasn’t for the Migration, I would still like it.” Her voice got softer. “The last of the snow melting, the buds coming out of the earth, everything awakening…it’s like the whole world is coming back to life.”

Bog couldn’t help giving a sour snort, shooting a glare to a place that was now cloaked in shadows but still drew his ire. “Some things would be better off staying dead.”

Marianne’s brows knotted in confusion, and she followed his gaze. Her eyes lit with sudden realization, and she gave a faint cough. “… _Right_. The primroses.” She rubbed her hands at her arms, her expression torn between embarrassment and discomfort. “I forgot that you have them chopped down each Spring.”

Bog continued to look off at the unseen Border, his mouth grim. “It’s the only way to ensure no one is fool enough to use them.” He shot her a foreboding look, eyes narrowed. “You said you had ways of preserving the bloom of petals. No one would be foolish enough to attempt to -?”

Marianne shook her head firmly, her ears waggling slightly. “ _No one._ Everyone fears the Forest too much to risk your wrath.” Bog nodded, grimly satisfied. Even if his reputation continued to cause alienation, it still served him well in that regard.

Marianne continued on, tucking a strand of loosened hair behind an ear. “Besides, we have to keep the petals locked away for a while in order to preserve them. I doubt that the magic within the primroses would survive the process.”

She paused, and then gave him a slow, measuring look. “But…on the subject of locking things away…there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

 _Ah._  So they were finally here… 

Bog exhaled roughly, looking once more off into the darkness. “The Sugar Plum Fairy. I was wondering when you would ask.” 

“You know I have to,” Marianne replied, her voice soft but frank, her face open and no censure in her eyes. Bog still set his jaw, and she hesitated before speaking, her voice cautious. “Is…is there  _any_  chance at all that you would consider freeing -?”

 _“No.”_  Bog’s voice was short, verging on curt, and he placed his hands on the banister, his eyes grimly watching the dark. “Plum committed crimes against my Kingdom. I punished her accordingly.” He looked over at the young Queen, his brow furrowing. “Why even ask? She’s not of your Kingdom –"

Marianne let out a small huff of annoyance. “She’s a Fairy –"

Bog let out a bark of laughter. “That title is a whim of hers, capricious creature that she is. She as much of a Fairy as I am. She’s a…” he struggled, trying to remember, “…a  _Sprite_. A being from an older time, absent of any familiar morality, born of pure magic.” He looked back at Marianne, his eyes stern but sincere. “Magic that is far safer kept under lock and key. I know what I’m doing. She needs to stay my prisoner.”

Marianne looked away, obviously disturbed at that, and Bog’s chest gave an inexplicable pain at the sight. But he had no choice. Plum had wronged him with her lies about the Potion. He couldn’t let anyone else suffer the same fate he had by gullibly swallowing her tales, be they from his Kingdom or hers…

He still found himself continuing on, his voice soft and earnest as he explained. “I wouldn’t do so without justification. She could spread chaos if she was released.”

“I know you believe so…” Marianne said softly, and Bog wanted to growl in frustration. He  _did_  know, he had bloody well experienced it first hand -!  

Marianne sighed, turning back to him, her eyes dark and contemplative. “All this because she brewed the Love Potion…”

Bog froze even as his heart began to beat sickeningly fast.  _No. Please no, please don’t, please don’t ask why that was a crime, please don’t ask me to explain -_

But there was no curious gleam to her eyes, only pained acceptance, and Bog felt himself relax. He had avoided talking about that wretched day for a good long time now, and he aimed to keep it that way.    

Marianne looked at him, clearly hesitating before continuing on, her voice soft. “I…I can’t say I agree with you imprisoning her, but…” She took a deep breath and set her shoulders. “…I do think it was wise of you to ban the Love Potion.”

_…What?_

Bog looked at her, surprised and wary. “You…you  _do?”_

Marianne nodded, her eyes thoughtful. “Yes…something like that could be incredibly dangerous in the wrong hands.” She gave a soft, almost pained sigh. “I can’t imagine what it must be like, to be so  _desperate_  to use one, to be driven to  _do_  such a –"

 _“How would ye know?”_  Bog said, and Marianne started back, her eyes widening at the undeniable snarl in his voice.

Bog didn’t care, he couldn’t, not with anger and offense coursing through him in a might wake, hard and hot and bitter as bile –

_How dare she, **how dare she** , she had  **no** idea –_

He waved a claw at her sharply. “Not  _everyone_  is born ta power an’ wealth an’ beauty.” Her eyebrows rose high at that, but Bog was still too angry to notice. He continued on, wrath thickening his speech. “There are those who- who cannae even  _have_  th’ hope of Love in their lives. If th’ circumstances were dire enough – if th’ Potion was their  _only_  chance a’ Love –"

 _\- if only I use just a wee bit, just enough to speed it along, it wouldn’t be cheating if there’s something there, I **know**  she must care for me, there  **must**  be something there, there has to be _–

“But it wouldn’t be real.” Marianne’s voice was quiet and certain and cut through the turmoil of Bog’s thoughts as easily as a sword parting mist.

He looked up at her sharply, and her eyes held no judgment as she met his gaze. In fact, she looked almost sad. “I get wanting Love, but…that’s just it. It wouldn’t  _be_  Love. It would be a lie. Nothing would be real.”

Bog stared at her, his heart thudding in his ears.  _Nothing would be…_

_He had never even thought about…_

Unaware of the sheer impact of her words upon him, Marianne bit her lip and looked away, hunching her shoulders. When she spoke, her voice was quietly desperate, soft enough that she could have been speaking to herself. “Why would anyone  _do_  that to themselves,  _lie_  to themselves that way?” She paused, and gave her softest, bitterest laugh yet. “Though I guess if the lie was beautiful enough, people  _would_  be willing to do anything to keep it alive.” The bitterness in her voice became full-fledged scorn. “And there was never a more beautiful lie than Love.”

The flinty certainty of her words managed to cleave through Bog’s shock enough that he was able to give a sharp snort at the sentiment, and venomous agreement glinted in his eyes as he looked at her.  _“I hear ye.”_

She nodded grimly, her eyes darkening with the anger she wore so very well. “The only thing Love does is blind you to all the flaws you should have seen from the start. And you become a fool-"

“- _Rushing in_ ,” Bog finished mockingly, and the smile she shot him was sharp as any blade. He continued, his voice as bitter as hers. “And you can’t help it, even though you know it’s nothing but –"

 _“Trouble,”_  she nodded, her teeth bared in a growl. Her hands clenched into fists upon the railing, the knuckles paling, her voice getting hard. “It binds you and you end up trapped because you were so  _stupid_ , so  _happy_  to not see, and you can’t do anything except just  _accept_  that you  _messed up_  and that now you’re  _miserable_  and you have no one to blame but  _yourself_  and –!"

She stopped, her breathing harsh, and flushed the deepest she had all evening, realizing just what words had spilled out in her anger.

Bog watched her, hardly daring to breath, and the faint strains of music and laughter washed over from the ballroom into the sudden silence between them.

It was one thing to witness her scorn towards her husband. But so much anger directed at  _herself…_

 **_How_ ** _could she blame herself, **how**  could she have possibly known…?_

Marianne’s flush still clung to her cheeks as she passed a hand over her face, trying to recover. She then slid it over to her throat, grasping at the gaudy jewelry that hid her pulse from her. “I…” she exhaled, her face getting ashamed and regretful, “I…I shouldn’t say that. I have Dawn, I love her. I have my subjects, my Kingdom. But…”

She stopped, and her eyes were dark with such a mix of anger and sadness Bog was seized with the mad desire to reach out, take her hand –

Without him even noticing, his hand lifted off of the banister, hesitant -  

Marianne sighed deeply, then fixed him with a frank, melancholic look. Bog’s hand immediately fell back to the cold stone, claws scratching it.

The young Queen’s voice was quiet. “Needless to say…I’m done with the other lies told in the name of Love.”

She looked down and gave a soft, sad laugh. “I guess that’s why I don’t like the idea of the Love Potion. Talk about being trapped. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be  _forced_ to love someone.” She sighed, long and weary. “Love – real love – can’t be forced.” Her hands clenched once more upon the railing, and her voice was low and raw.  _“But god, does it break you.”_

Bog looked away, feelings and thoughts snarling like a thicket within him. Between such a painful admission and the fact that he had been so  _close_  to reaching out to her, to comfort her, just like in the hallway –

 _Too close, she would think it was pity_  –

But to hear her so speak so  _knowingly_  about the wretchedness of Love -

_“…I’m done with the other lies told in the name of Love.”_

Just like him…

He sighed as deeply as she had, his own shoulders slumping. Thinking about the Potion, talking about Plum, coupled with the stress from the party…all had left him in a state of emotional fatigue that weakened the fierce guard on his emotions, his walls coming down as much as her own.

When he spoke, his voice was one of weary agreement. “It does just that. Love is dangerous. It weakens, it rots…” he looked down at his hand, felt the scar on his palm rub against the stone, biting into it slightly. His voice was quiet but rough.  _“It wounds_.” Claws curled into a futile fist, and he looked back to his Forest, his face softening into a grimace, his expression tinged with a pain that was echoed in his low voice. “I should know.”  

Marianne looked at him, those large eyes wider still with surprise.  _“You…you were in love?”_

Bog couldn’t stop the harsh, miserable laugh at her frankly astounded tone. He looked at her, and his fangs bared in a mockery of a smile. “Why do you think I banned it in the first place?”

_Why do you think I am the way I am?_

Bog looked away, his hard grin fading fast at that traitorous thought. Hells, he was getting melodramatic…

Marianne eyes skittered over him, taking in the dour line of his mouth, his low, furrowed brow, his great, monstrous body hunched over the gilded railing. They went to his face once more, lingering on his eyes. “Yeah…” she murmured, before sighing and moving closer, nudging his elbow with her own. “When you put it like that…can’t say I blame you.”

Silence fell once more between them, one that echoed with unspoken things. Bog watched her from the corner of his eye, gowned in that fluttery, frilly mess of a claim and collared by a man who couldn’t even give her the courtesy of standing by her, and then considered himself, bitter and grim, scorning company but still stinging with rejection…

Both of them smarting under the cruelty only Love could inflict…

He almost laughed.  _What a pair they made._

Another wave of sound flowed out from the ballroom, a multitude of happy voices once more calling out  _“To King Roland!”_  A thousand of tiny, merry clinks followed, wineglasses knocking together for their golden King.

Bog repressed a grown, and Marianne gave him a slightly twisted smile.  _“To King Roland…”_ she drawled softly. “That’s a real popular toast this evening. Wanna join in?”

“I believe I’ll pass,” Bog said dryly.  

“How about we make our own then?” Marianne snagged her wine glass once more and held it up mockingly before her. “To Love…” she murmured, staring into its empty depths. “The pain everyone so desperately craves.”

She passed it to him, and Bog took it readily, knowing exactly what to say. “To telling that pain it can bugger off.”

Marianne grinned, sharp and delighted. “ _Hell yeah.”_

Bog smirked at such venomous pleasure, relishing it as much as the cool breeze that blew up from the gardens below, flowers and herbs from there now twining into the cool scent of the evening…

_Herbs…_

He gave a sudden jolt, his eyes widening. “Gods, I almost forgot –"

Marianne looked up at him, her face concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Bog assured her, setting down her glass quickly. “Just – I have something for you.”

Marianne tilted her head, surprise glinting in her eyes. “For  _me?”_

Bog nodded, looking around for his scepter. “Aye. I left it in your Library, I thought it would be safe there while I made my appearance here. I’ve been having scouts comb the Forest for them, before the frosts come –"

Marianne’s face was alight with curiosity, her eyes eager. “ _Them?_  What is it -?”

“I’ll show you,” Bog promised, giving the balcony one last sweeping glance before he gave a groan. Of  _course_  he had left it back in the ballroom, too consumed with irritation to spare a thought for leaving such a valuable item behind –

He then smiled, struck by an idea. “I can do so now, if you’d like. Diplomatic matters are always an iron-clad excuse to leave an affair like this early…”

Marianne’s smile blossomed like a flower, and her eyes shone with excitement. “ _God, yes_. Roland won’t be able to complain, even if he notices we’re gone.” Her wings gave a happy flit and she headed to the doors, aiming a glowing grin at him over her shoulders as her strap fell down once more, all remnants of her black mood gone. “And if it stops you from teasing me -”

Bog gave a slant of a smile in return as he followed after her, keeping to the edge of the ballroom as the heat and the noise once more pressed down on him, his eyes glancing about for his scepter. “I thought patience was a virtue amongst fairies –"

A cold, familiar length of metal was suddenly pressed into his palms, and Bog blinked as Marianne smiled up teasingly at him, dropping his scepter into his grasp. “And  _I_ thought we established that I’m different from other fairies.”

Bog gave a quick blink and a surprised huff of laughter. “Aye, that we did.”

She gave him another cheeky grin before turning on her heel and making her way along the edge of the crowd, all of them too intent on the party to mind their Queen.  

Bog focused entirely on following her, not letting his mind stray to the fact that she had been at ease with handing him his own scepter.

Nor that he hadn’t been the least bit bothered with her handling it to begin with.

* * *

Out of all the chambers in the Fairy Palace, the Library was Bog’s favorite. It was a cavernous place, the shelves that held the vast collection of books and scrolls of the Fairy Kingdom deep and maze-like. The reoccurring motif of flowers and vines of the Kingdom was etched into the walls and carved onto the stone shelves. While there was some of the usual golden gilding, it was also dim and dusty, the light soft and warm so not to damage the precious texts. The walls and ceiling were rough and craggy in some places, but the arches to the balcony and over the fireplace was as smooth as any Fairy could desire. A long table of highly polished wood held the center of the room, the perfect place to spread texts and maps, and the chairs here were large and comfy, nothing like the dainty little things normally used by fairies.

Bog had liked it at once, reminded of his own Archives back at the Forest despite the  _gleam_  of everything. But then, he always did have an affection for such places – it seemed like the hours of his youth had been evenly divided between training, causing trouble, and pouring over the texts of his Kingdom, desperately searching for more knowledge to devour. In fact, that was how his ideas for diplomacy had started, endlessly reading up on different kingdoms and empires and rulers and realizing how truly  _alone_  the Dark Forest was, how  _isolated_.  _How the **hells**  was one to have any adventures if one kept to only  **one**  Kingdom?_

Bog almost snorted at the memory of his adolescent indignation as he made his way to the table, the small package he had brought still there, wrapped in moss. His claws sliced neatly through the vines that twined it together, and he spoke over his shoulder to Marianne has she closed the large doors with a soft  _clunk_. “This is merely a sample, mind you. But once you’re able to gather your own team of explorers, this can help guide them in what to look for.”

Marianne came closer, her expression vivid with curiosity. “What on earth _is_ it?”

Bog couldn’t resist, grinning as he stepped back from the opened package. “I suppose you could say it will help _heal_  things between the Kingdoms…”

Marianne arched a brow at him, crossing her arms. “Okay, I can totally tell that you  _think_ you just made a very clever joke, but unless you’re gonna tell me what’s going on, I’m just gonna assume it was a bad one and – _oh!”_

She rushed to the table, her eyes wide as they looked over the different plants spread across the moss.  _“Are these -?”_

“They’re merely a sample,” Bog repeated, watching her reach out a cautious hand, fingers hovering over the plants, dried and fresh alike. “But we’ve used them all for our medicines. Salves, antidotes, things like that. I figured it was best to get them to you before the cold took them.”

Marianne let out a slightly overwhelmed laugh. “This is – I knew that the Forest had more than us, but –  _god_ , I don’t think I’ve ever even  _read_ about some of these!” She looked up, her smile almost wild with excitement. “What are their properties?”

“Varied and vast,” Bog replied, coming to join her, and he should  _not_  feel such foolish enjoyment at her profound pleasure at such an offering. He waved claw over the plants. “Most are quite basic – the majority of them can lessen various pains. If combined properly, they act as sedatives. “ He shrugged a shoulder, his scales crackling. “The illnesses and maladies that inflict goblins are undoubtedly quite different from the ones that your people catch. I figured it would be best to bring some simple ones for your healers to study. Although…”

Marianne watched with wide, enraptured eyes as he picked up one plant, the leaves small and prickly, a warm shade of orange speckled with umber. Bog continued, his voice faintly smug. “…This one is quite good. We use it in the Winter.”

Marianne practically quivered with anticipation and impatience, and he could tell she was restraining herself from reaching for it. “What does it do?”

“Warms us.” Marianne cocked her head, and Bog gave a chuckle. “Goblins retreat beneath the ground during the Winter – we have tunnels and caverns that shelter us from the snow, hot springs that help stave off the chill. But when we need to hunt and gather, we use this.” He crushed the plant in his grip, and a sharp, almost bitter scent filled the air.

Marianne recoiled a bit, her nose scrunching. “It’s quite… _potent.”_

“Aye, and that’s just the smell.” Bog grinned and held his hand out to her, the juice staining his claws. “Feel it.”

Marianne arched a brow but nonetheless touched her fingers against his gingerly. Her eyes shot open. “Oh my –  _it’s warm!”_

“Fireroot.” Bog set the crumpled leaves back down. “We brew the leaves into a tonic, crush them into our food. If done properly, it makes us immune to the cold for periods of time. If a Goblin falls ill during snowfall, we put them on this. It’s saved many a skin.” He cocked a brow at her. “But  _never_ consume the root – it was a popular poison in the past. Makes insides of its victims damn near melt.”

Marianne shivered at the grisly detail but nonetheless picked up the plant, hands cautious but eyes awestruck. “So the leaves can be eaten?”

“Stick to brewing them to keep the cold off of you, but eat the leaves raw in cases like frostbite.” Bog watched her dab at the sap, her face full of wonder, and hesitated before continuing. “Will…will it be useful to you?”

Marianne looked up, her face thunderstruck. “ _Will this be -?_  Do you have  _any_  idea what -?” She stopped and took a deep breath. “The fairies have their Migration, but the elves and brownies are left behind. Each Spring begins with funerals for those the cold got. Every Migration, I feel like I’m abandoning them -” She set the plant down, her breath almost shaky. “This…this will change  _everything_. The elderly and the young won’t have to stay indoors the whole time, Sunny won’t have to debate about staying or coming with us –" 

She looked up at him, and her eyes seemed to glow, liquid with light and emotion. “My people needn’t ever fear Winter again.  _Thank you_.”

Her heartfelt whisper and the sheer gratitude flowing from her went through him in a wave as warm as the juice still coating his claws, and Bog hastily ducked his head down, embarrassed.  “You…there won’t be an endless supply,” he mumbled. “You’ll have to manage it, store it carefully…”

“You can show us how,” Marianne said, and she grasped his hands, almost giddy. “God, you have  _no_ idea what this means, I can’t thank you enough –"

“Don’t be thanking me just yet,” Bog warned. “I expect an even trade from you.”

Marianne nodded her head, her joy refusing to be dampened. “Of course! I mean, after this, whatever you want –"

“Some of your harvest.”

Marianne drew back, a concerned glint coming to her eyes, and Bog held up a placating claw. “Not all of it – goblins have our own. But it’s meager, and fights over food can get fierce in the Underground.” He shrugged once more, almost hesitant. “Anything would be appreciated.”

Marianne laughed, a warm and joyful sound. “After what you’ve given us, you’re gonna get a hell of a lot more than just  _anything.”_  Her grin was almost wicked, and the amber of her eyes sparkled. “I’m gonna make sure all of you  _feast_.”

Bog had to concentrate on not letting his relief show. Last Winter had been a tough one, the storage running dangerously low. His people had emerged from the Tunnels nursing far too many wounds from squabbling over food, starting Spring in a poor state, the time when he needed them to be whole and hardy and quick as possible. This would help immensely –

He looked down at the spread of his Forest’s bounty and was struck by an idea. “Perhaps you could use some of your means of preservation on these?”

Marianne nodded, her eyes lighting up with interest and enthusiasm. “Oh,  _absolutely._  And I can have a committee show your people how you can do the same with the food we give you, so you don’t have to eat only dried things during the cold –"

She stopped suddenly, and then gave a soft laugh. “ _God_ , this is just…”

Bog looked at her, concerned. “What is it?”

She shook her head slightly, her locks somewhat loosened from their carefully pinned coils. “Just…this is  _exactly_  what I dreamed of, what I hoped for. Both of the Kingdoms working together,  _helping_  each other…” She sighed, heartfelt and overwhelmed, and the look she gave him was full of warmth.  _“We’re doing it. And it’s a success.”_

Bog took in the sight of her, so full of light and pleasure and satisfaction, and once again felt that queer sensation in his chest, his heart throbbing fierce and full –

He looked down, his breath inexplicably short, and busied himself with wrapping up the plants, his claws catching at the moss. “As I said, the end is far off. It’s not over, there’s still always a chance of –"

 _“Chaos,”_  Marianne finished, still smiling slightly, by now quite familiar with Bog’s usual concern. “There always will be. But you can’t deny that diplomacy is going well.”  

Bog gave a soft exhale of a laugh. “Aye, for now.”

Marianne snorted, rolling her eyes. “Why are you so determined to be cynical?”

Bog shot a glower at her that matched the playfulness of her scolding. “I find it’s safer that way.”

Marianne rolled her eyes once more but couldn’t keep her grin back as he handed the little mossy bundle to her. “Safer, sure, but boring.” She hugged the package to her like a child cradling a beloved toy. “We really should be celebrating  _this_  tonight instead of Roland.”

Bog took his scepter from where he had leaned it against the table, arching a brow at her. “I was under the impression we were celebrating his  _departure.”_ He smirked a touch maliciously. “This Ball  _is_  the last we’ll see of him for a good long time.”

Marianne blinked and then laughed, her cheeks pinking. “You know, I keep forgetting that? And here I am lecturing you about focusing on the grim stuff.” She chuckled, fiddling with a stray lock that had fallen over an ear. “What with how the Ball always ends up being all about him, I guess it’s easy to do so.” She gave him a slightly shamefaced look. “I know that earlier I wasn’t being – well, particularly  _queenly_  –"

“You needed to talk,” Bog interrupted gently. “And there was no pain in listening.”  _There never will be._  

Marianne ducked her head, but he could tell the blush on her cheeks was no longer from shame. When she met his gaze again, her eyes seemed all the more warmer in the gentle light of the Library. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For listening. And… everything else.” She looked down and laughed, a soft, almost embarrassed little sound, and tapped slender fingers against the bundle in her embrace. “Especially this. This Winter has the chance of being our best one yet.” She looked up at him, and her smile was so genuine it almost hurt to look upon her. “I think the same can be said for the Fall.”

It was so easy to move closer to her warmth, the light of her smile and the glow of her amber eyes drawing him in like a moth. “With the King being gone, there’s little doubt of that –"

“Roland’s been gone before.” Marianne also moved closer, and there was a look in her eyes, an odd sort of almost tenderness. “That’s not the reason I think this Fall will be a good one.”

Her meaning was clear as it was unspoken, and Bog had to look away. Looking forward to seeing  _him_ , talking with  _him_  –

_His heart was racing, **why**  was his heart racing -?_

He suddenly became aware of just how close they had become and quickly stepped back, giving an awkward exhale of a laugh and clearing his throat. “Uh _, right._  It will…undoubtedly be good for both Kingdoms.”

Marianne gave a little hum of agreement, her eyes still warm and affectionate as she watched him, a curl of a smile to her lips. “Yeah,  _undoubtedly_.”

He knew she was teasing him, but he couldn’t even manage the merest bit of a growl at this point. Bog had never had anyone besides his mother regard him with such friendliness, not since –

He winced as Marianne glanced over a shoulder at the doors, thankfully not noticing his grimace. She gave a bit of a wistful sigh. “I  _really_  don’t want to head back to the party…”

“Then don’t,” Bog said plainly, thankful to concentrate on her rather than irksome and intrusive memories. “You’re the Queen, you needn’t explain yourself.”

Marianne opened her mouth, undoubtedly to refute such a statement –  _royalty couldn’t be indulgent in their power, yield it carelessly_  – then snapped it shut before giving a laugh and a small shake of her head. “You know what? You’re right. Screw it, lets end this night on a good note.”

Bog chuckled at her air of youthful rebellion. Gods, he forgot how  _young_  she truly was at times. “I would wager you’ve earned it.”

“We both have.” Marianne smiled once more and touched his arm. “I think I might stay here for bit, drag out some of the texts on our herbs and plants, see if I can find any similarities. But you’re free to make your escape –“

“I wouldn’t use the term  _escape_ ,” Bog said dryly, but his eyes were sly.

Marianne’s responding smile was equally full of devilish merriment. “Escape, retreat, what have you…doesn’t matter. You’re  _free.”_

“As soon as I gather my goblins, I will be.” Stuff and Thang were undoubtedly under one of the banquet tables, stuffing their gobs. Bloodwart and Muggon might have retreated deeper into the Palace to avoid the crowds, however. Bog raised a brow at her. “Will relations crumble if I don’t give a personal farewell to your King?”

“Not so much as a nick,” Marianne replied dryly. “The only thing that could distract Roland from the party now is a mirror.” She then looked down at her bundle and set it on the table, sighing. “I should probably let him know about this, shouldn’t I? Though I  _might_ keep the bit about the poisons to myself…”

Bog nodded a bit grimly. The Fairy King was still  _far_  too interested in exploring new ways in which to do battle. “Is he still objecting to our meetings?”

Marianne blew an impatient gust of an exhale, rolling her eyes. “That was all the triplets, not him. Roland could give a damn what I get up to, especially if it has to do with new options for medicine.  _Leave the healing to the ladies,”_ she said with an exaggerated, familiar drawl, scorn dripping from each vowel.

Bog nodded again, torn between displeasure at such blatant disrespect and neglect and gratitude that their meetings would remain untouched. The cronies of the King would always regard him with suspicion, but Roland had evidently decided it was the easiest and safest course to treat the King of the Dark Forest as he had before - smooth arrogance and casually flippant insults. 

It grated at Bog, but it was easier to tolerate than the childish petulance Roland displayed over getting so thoroughly trounced by him. And as long as he could meet with her -

Off that thought, Bog shot Marianne an enquiring look. “Shall we meet again before the King leaves?” Another idea came to him, far less pleasant. “I won’t be required to attend the formal farewell to the King, will I?”

“Nah, you suffered through this Ball, that’s homage enough.” Marianne grinned, then let her fingers go to her hair, pulling at unseen pins and plucking her crown off. She shook her head, sighing in relief as the dark locks fell into their usual disarray, tiny golden flowers tumbling down, the sheen of her hair almost a dark auburn in the light. A faint sweetness curled through the air to him - her perfume,the scent soft and now familiar - 

Setting her crown back on her head, she headed over to a shelf, pulling off a thick tome and shrugging a shoulder at him, her strap falling once more. “How about next week? I can send you a notice as soon as Roland is gone, if you want.”

“Sounds fair.” He tried to repress a grin at her transformation from gilded and golden Queen to her natural state of relaxed elegance, but a faint smirk stretched at his mouth as he inclined his head to her. “I’ll leave you to your studies. Try not to overwork yourself–"

“You’re one to talk,” Marianne retorted, smirking right back at him as she settled down into a chair, opening up her book and tucking her legs underneath her, careless of her gown. Her eyes appeared over the top of the pages as he walked away, creasing with hidden smile, their amber warm and clear of drink. “Goodnight, Bog King.”

Bog’s smirk softened into a smile as he reached the doors, and he spoke over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Queen Marianne.”

The spine of her book dipped down and he caught the smallest glimpse of her smile as before the door closed. Bog began his trek down the halls to look for his company, and his sigh was both tired and content. Despite the rough beginning, it had ended up not a  _wholly_  horrible evening…

Although…

 _“I can’t imagine what it must be like, to be so_   ** _desperate_**   _to use one, to be driven to_   ** _do_  ** _such a –"_

 _“I get wanting Love, but…that’s just it. It wouldn’t_   ** _be_**   _Love. It would be a lie. Nothing would be real.”_

_“Love – real love – can’t be forced.”_

Bog exhaled, slow and deep. She had no idea, no idea at all…

But apparently neither had he…

He set his jaw, gripped his scepter tight. His decision would remain unchanged, his vow and ruling the same as it had been for fourteen years. No Love in the Dark Forest, no freedom for the Sugar Plum. The risk was too great, the danger of chaos too real. But…

Her words had a different echo of danger to them, one of unavoidable and undeniable truths that he was sure would haunt his thoughts for days and nights to come, old misgivings like specters…

Bog nearly growled.  _Enough._  It was too late to delve into contemplation. Besides, there was one fact and one fact alone that he knew for certain, had stood by all these years.  _Love is dangerous._ To believe otherwise was the worst type of foolishness, the most willful blindness. Having his eyes opened had been painful, but at least he could see that now -

Suddenly and inexplicably, Bog thought back to that one moment in the Library, standing close to the Queen –

-  _so close to her, not even aware until he had noticed how her face had tipped up to look at him, her eyes burning soft and amber in the dim light_  –

\- and stepping back, the primal need to retreat rearing up in the face of… of something he wasn’t quite sure  _what_  to call.

Or perhaps he did.

_There’s a danger to her._

Bog snorted. Aye, that was true enough. But that’s what he _liked_  about Marianne - her deceptive softness, silken wings and delicate skin hiding flinty and fiery determination. Bog had never thought he would ever call a  _Fairy_ tough, but she was just that, so  _different_ from any Fairy he had ever encountered…

Marianne was indeed dangerous in her sheer difference, and Bog wouldn’t have had it any other way.

_“Love is dangerous…”_

Bog paused at the unbidden echo of his words, surprised. He then scoffed and continued on his way, rolling his eyes as his wings twitched in annoyance. 

What did  _Love_  have to do with any of it?   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was basically my love letter to Fall. Feel free to drink some spiced cider when reading this…
> 
> I am so deeply sorry for the long wait between the last chapter and this one! Other timelines consumed me, but man, it feels *good* to be writing for this fanfic again. My gratitude to you guys for sticking with this story is endless, and I hope this chapter satisfied!
> 
> Also! Here's a link to some artwork I did regarding how I envisioned Marianne's ballgown in this chapter: http://suzie-guru.tumblr.com/post/132601808358/some-ideas-for-how-i-envisoned-mariannes-dress-in


	9. Chapter Eight

**_Chapter Eight_  **

The sun was warm upon his scales as Bog flew over the Fields to the Fairy Palace, even though the wind had grown considerably brisker the last few weeks. But such a contrast was bracing rather than discomforting, sharpening senses and making his anticipation grow.  _Finally_  –

Yes, he could concede that it was fairly ridiculous that he should feel such frank – _excitement_ \- over this particular meeting, what with the fact that they had been having their talks for a fair stretch of time now. But that didn’t change that this was the first one where they could  _truly_ relax –

-  _no more bearing the grating idiocy of the golden idiot, no more scowls from his three cronies, no more potential threat of either of them disturbing their sessions_  –

Bog’s slant of a smile threatened to grow into a true grin as he touched down onto the balcony that lead into the Great Hall. He could have landed on the Library’s, but he wanted to relish in the fact that there was no guards just barely keeping their hands away from their swords at the sight of him. He breathed in deeply and this time his smirk did split into a grin.  _No Roland at all._  The very air seemed purer. Or perhaps that was merely the intoxicating freshness of the Fall day.

Or he was simply being dramatic. According to his mother, such a thing was always a possibility.

Bog rolled his eyes and started off down the hall, taking the by now well-known route to the Library. Let her talk – he wasn’t about to have this day ruined. It was rare when he arrived at the Fairy Palace in a fine mood, and Bog intended to savor it.

When he finally made it to the great doors of the Library, he slowed his steps as he heard the murmur of voices, making Bog cock his head curiously before rapping at the door.

The murmuring immediately stopped, and a familiar alto called out curiously, even cautiously. “Who is it?”

He grinned once more. “It’s me.” Perhaps he should have made more of an effort to keep formality between them, but…hells, they  _knew_  each other now.

He could hear her smile in her answer. “Come on in.”

He let himself through the door and was confronted with the image of Queen Marianne addressing a small trio of –  _sprites?_  No, too small. But they  _were_  like Plum, possessing no visible legs and flying and floating as she did, though their forms were more flowery than Plum’s glow of magic. They were giving little chirps and trills as replies to the Queen’s comments and commands, and she seemed to understand them perfectly.

“–Let the other guards know as well that it will be just me and the King. No other goblins should be arriving, but if they do, they aren’t to do anything foolish. When in doubt, come to me.” She arched a brow at them. “Though they are also to understand that I would prefer there be no needless interruptions.”

The little purple one gave a coo that sounded like a question, and Marianne nodded seriously, tapping her lip. “That’s something to consider, but Dawn does have her own schedule. But I’ll ask her just in case. It would mean her being at the Palace, but only for the days we meet.”

Marianne caught Bog’s eye and smiled, and then addressed her company once more. “Alright, ladies, that will be all. I’ll let you know when I need stuff cleared away.”

The tiny creatures gave a chorus of trills and zipped around Marianne, brushing against her with obvious affection, and Marianne gave a somewhat embarrassed laugh as Bog watched bemusedly. “Okay, that’s – that’s enough –  _cool_ it, guys –"

“What  _are_ they?” Bog asked, unable to contain his curiosity or keep his silence.  

The creatures looked up and shrilled with alarm, ducking behind Marianne. Bog immediately took a step back, guilt already burning across his scales. Hells, of course they would be alarmed at the sudden sight of such a dark monstrosity –

Marianne gave him an apologetic wince and looked down at the creatures as they clung to her skirt. “Girls, c’mon,” she said, her tone both comforting and admonishing. “There’s no need to be afraid, it’s just the Bog King. He’s fine.” She looked back up at Bog and cocked a brow, a twist to her lip that let him know she was fighting to hold back a smile. “Right, your majesty?”

Slightly at a loss of what to do, Bog settled for holding up his hands in mock-surrender, hoping the sight of his claws wouldn’t create more unease in the wee things. “I’m at their mercy.”

Marianne gave a snort and smiled down at what were apparently her handmaidens. “See? Sweet, just like I told you. You’re okay.”

Bog felt a strange sensation jolt through him.  _Sweet?_

But then the little things were slowly drifting out from behind their Queen, watching Bog and blinking large, black eyes, giving curious little chirps and murmurs amongst themselves.

“They’re pixies,” Marianne said, the train of her dress trailing over the polished floor softly as she made her way to him. It was a rich midnight blue, cut with long sleeves against the cool weather, and Bog couldn’t help but notice it suited her extremely well, her wings particularly vibrant against it. “Pledged to the females of the Royal Family, all the way back. Bluebell” – the purple one nodded her head regally – “Clover” – the pink one tittered and ducked her head – “and Thistle” – the green one gave a tiny wave – “ all served my mother and were passed onto me after her death.” The smile she gave them was both fond and wry. “They can be a handful, but you can’t beat ‘em for loyalty.”

So not just handmaidens, but reminders of her mother, not to mention one of the few things in her life she didn’t have to question in devotion. No wonder Marianne took such obvious care with them.

Bog inclined his head to them, short but respectful. “An honor.”

The pixies burst into shrill little giggles and titters, and then exploded into a flurry of movement, zipping and swooping around Bog, examining him with avid curiosity. Bog gripped his scepter tight in an effort to quell the instinct to swat, and was uncomfortably reminded of Plum’s wee little devils and how he had had to fight them off when he had imprisoned her –

“Careful, they smell fear,” Marianne said dryly, but her smile was warm. “Girls, enough. Go see if Dawn needs any help in the Village. We’ll still be here when you get back.”

With a final dizzying flip, the pixies darted out the door, and Marianne tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear, looking faintly embarrassed. “Like I said, they’re a handful and,  _um_ , understandably overwhelming if you’re not used to them –"

“When one grows up with goblins,” Bog said dryly, letting himself relax and his scepter drop down, “ _overwhelming_ takes on an entirely different meaning.”

Marianne laughed, free and full, and shook her head ruefully. “Yeah, I guess so. Another cultural difference for us to explore.” Her smile was teasing, and she gestured to the table, and Bog was surprised to find two delicate cups there, placed somewhat apart from the usual spread of books and maps, full of a liquid that steamed fragrantly. “I wasn’t sure if you already ate, so I figured tea would be fine to start with.”  

Bog took in the sight and almost shook his head with wonderment – tea with the Queen of the Fairies as they poured over books and discussed matters of state. If the Gravener King could see him now. Hells, if  _any_  of his predecessors could…

Marianne cocked her head at him as she waited for an answer, and a gleam of trepidation come into her golden-brown eyes. “I…I mean, I can have it taken away if you don’t want –" 

“That scent is… _different,”_  Bog said, picking up a cup, carefully minding his claws. He sniffed at it curiously. “What is it?”

Marianne’s expression relaxed, and a faint smile curved at her lips. “Jasmine. It was a gift from the Queen of the Southern Fairy Empire. Not a common bloom here, sadly. Though the Fields  _do_ have some nice ones.” She settled into her chair before picking up her own cup and arching a brow at him over the rim. “Is tea a thing in the Dark Forest?”

Bog laughed, thinking back to his mother’s usual cup of peat-moss. “You can say that.” His grin was sly as he settled himself against the table. “Looking to trade, are you?”

Marianne’s eyes sparkled up at him, and  _gods,_  but she wore happy mischief well. “Got to start somewhere.” She waved a hand to the documents, her arch tone ruined by the sheer warmth of her smile. “Shall we?”

He inclined his head to her mockingly. “If the Queen commands.”

Marianne laughed and knocked her cup against his, the liquid sloshing a bit. “She does.”

And so it began.

* * *

Marianne was already pouring over books when he arrived on a later day, the season now well into the heart of Autumn and the trees wholly changed, the leaves a brushfire of reds and oranges and golds in the wind. Her fine brow was furrowed in concentration, and she waved distractedly at him, her long fingers beckoning him closer in a careless command. “C’mere, you need to see this.”

Bog fumbled with the package he had tucked under his arm as he hastened to obey, betraying a smirk at her unthinkingly ordering a fellow ruler about.  _Bossy wee thing._  He gave a slight oath as the contents of his bundle threatened to spill before he had reached the table – Thang had been the one to wrap it up, he had never learned how to tie things properly – but manage to place it upon the polished surface without any further trouble. That challenge concluded, he turned to her, cocking a brow. “What have you found?”   

She grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling with excitement from beneath her brows. “I think I  _might_  have found a link.”

Bog blinked both at the news and at how her dress of overlapping maple leaves set off her coloring, their warm golden-orange tones making her eyes positively glow. He attempted to focus, scratching claws at his neck. “Already? You’ve only just started looking –“

“Never underestimate a determined Fairy,” Marianne mock-scolded, picking up a heavy tome and rifling through it.  She then gave a grin that was both pleased and slightly guilty. “Especially one who is trying to avoid meeting with certain councilors.”

“I thought you said the ones who left with your King were the worst of the lot,” Bog observed dryly.

Marianne nodded, her grin wry. “True, but that’s not saying much.” She sighed, leaning against the table. “I suppose the majority of them  _are_ harmless, but they’re so  _old,_  so out of touch with what the Kingdom really needs. I would love to introduce some young people to the Council, but there are all these stupid rules and stipulations about that kind of thing. Hadrian is the closest one to my age, and even with him being nobility there were still complaints that his seat should have gone to someone more  _experienced.”_

Bog raised a brow at her. “You can’t be  _that_ young –"

He immediately caught himself, flushing in mortification. “I –  _uh_  – I mean –"

Marianne threw her head back and laughed long and loud, and her eyes were full of teasing affection when she looked at him. “’Cause I’m  _so_  full of maturity and wisdom, right?”

Bog gave an exhale of a laugh, relief and amusement mixing as one. “Exactly.” She was joking, but in her comments weren’t that far off. She had already proven herself as an equal and even more so in her wits and intelligence and determination and sheer force –

Marianne chuckled, cradling her book to her. “Fair enough, but in eyes of fairies who’ve already passed their fortieth or fiftieth season, passing your twenty-third Spring makes you as good as an infant.”

Bog halted, a strange sensation crawling over him.  _Oh._  She was… _considerably_  younger than him, more so than he had…

Well, it was only logical – he had been ruling for fifteen years, she had only been ruling for three –

It wasn’t like it  _mattered_ , or – or  _changed_  anything -

Marianne tilted her head at him. “What’s wrong?”

Bog immediately tried to get a grip on himself, clearing his throat and rolling back his shoulders. “Nothing, just – I’m…I’m older than you.”

It sounded ridiculous to even his ears, and he couldn’t keep back his grimace of shame.  _Why_  was this getting to him so –?

Marianne raised her brows. “Well, I kinda figured that. How old are you?”

Bog gripped his scepter tighter, not able to meet her gaze. “This Spring was my thirty-third.”

To his great surprise, Marianne gave a laugh. “Ten years isn’t _that_  much older.” At Bog’s scrunched brow, she rolled her eyes and lifted a shoulder. “Okay, maybe it is, but – I mean, at least it’s nice and even.” The smile she aimed at him was both teasing and fond. “It’s not like you’re  _ancient_  or anything. And unlike the old windbags on the Council, you actually  _want_ to listen to my ideas.” 

Bog gave another exhale of a laugh, almost light-headed from an unexplainable relief. “Aye, there’s that.” He remembered what she had been so eager about, and nodded to her book, quirking a questioning look at her. “Like that link…?”

Marianne started. “ _Oh!_  Oh yeah, of course…” She quickly opened up the heavy tome and set to turning through the pages, her expression intent and her mutter distracted. “Just let me find that page…”

Bog watched her, unable to keep the slight smile slanting across his mouth. Marianne had been seized with the idea to find a link between the history and culture of the Kingdoms, one that could provide a solid connection between the two worlds. Bog had felt there was no harm in exploring the idea, and so along with bringing new plants for her to examine and categorize, he had set some time to combing his Archives for anything he could find. It was dusty, time-consuming work, but Bog rather enjoyed the peace of it.

Perhaps she had found something on languages they could use - Marianne had mentioned wondering if there might have been a shared language once. Bog, knowing that the Dark Forest had the Old Tongue, had shared her enthusiasm for the idea. Perhaps there was an even older language that crossed both Forest and Field –

Marianne gave a little cry of triumph.  _“Aha!_  There you are!” She quickly marked the page and looked up at Bog, her eyes sparkling. “Remember how I asked you about the Elders, and what they do to keep record of your history? I was thinking about how we do that over here.”

Bog snorted and waved his hand around them, the gesture encompassing all the scrolls and books and documents crawling up the walls. “Seems rather obvious.”

Marianne rolled her eyes at his dry tone. “Yeah, okay, that’s  _part_ of it. But my mother always said that history is just one stone in the foundation of a culture – there needs to be life too, what happens day to day.” Marianne smiled. “And for us, that’s songs. Songs and stories.”

Bog cocked his head, intrigued despite himself. He had been surprised and rather pleased to discover that music was not to be taken lightly in either Kingdom, though for very different reasons. His people saw it as a form of intimidation, a way in which to rally others to battle or to challenge an enemy. Even out of a fight, it was a way in which to bolster wild carousing.

Those of the Light Fields, however, used it as a way to release emotions when mere spoken words could not do. Yet Bog had noticed that most fairies shied away from true intensity in their songs. Music here was to be light and cheerful, as that was what those belonging to the Fields  _ought_  to be.

Knowing the true turmoil and pain of her life and how she worked to keep it all so desperately hidden, Bog hadn’t been able to stop himself from wondering if that was why he had never heard Marianne sing…

Regardless, both societies used music to foster community, and it was with an intrigued glint to his eyes that Bog leaned in to look at the book Marianne held. “Are these old songs, then?”

Marianne shrugged a shoulder. “Well, I  _started_  on the songs, since we know some of them crossed the Border. But then…I started thinking of our older songs,  _really_  old ones, and…” She looked down at her book and held it out to him, biting her lip. “…That led me to our really old stories.” Her face was both wary and burning with curiosity and eagerness. “Does the Dark Forest have any fables about the Fae?”

Bog felt a strange prickle creep over his neck.  _Gods above, of **course**._

He knew the legends, had grown up with them as all goblins had. His mother had told them to him countless nights before bed, her voice washing over him as sleep claimed him, his rapt attention soon becoming vivid dreams…

Even when he first took the throne, he had poured over what texts he could find in the Archives on the subject, much to the disproval of some of the Elders who felt their King shouldn’t spend time on such frivolous pursuits. Though he was sure that Goblin fables wove quite a different yarn from the stories those of the Light Fields told…

Legends of a mythic time when fairies and goblins were united under one Kingdom, where Light and Dark did not divide but balance. A time when the Border was not only open between Forest and Field, but nigh inexistent what with how unnecessary it was.

It was said that the differences between the creatures were the same as they were now, but back then they had all held the same title -  _The Fae_. One preferred the Sun while the other kept to the Shadow, but each knew how to work and live with one another.

_Even love…_

Bog repressed a sigh, thinking back to the fable he had requested the most as a child, how  _fascinated_  he had been by such an idea, never mind the sheer impossibility of it.  _The idea of a Kingdom of both Shadow and Sun, ruled a Queen from the Fields and a King from the Forest…_

 _Gods,_  but he had been a foolish lad, wasting his time being spellbound by the beautiful lies of romance and adventure that such stories held…

When he thought back upon those times, Bog could only shake his head, a grimace twisting at his mouth.  _It mattered not._ That was in the past, fabled Kingdoms and all…

Besides, the tale didn’t even end happily, what with the fateful day that the Fae splintered off into the Two Kingdoms, one claiming the Forest while the other ruled the Fields.  _“And so they stayed, side by side but worlds apart, and the Primroses bloomed as a witness to this Separation…”_

Not even the oldest of the Forest’s scholars had known the reason for the divide. But Bog was willing to bet that even if an answer were given, both Kingdoms would have vastly different ideas on just  _who_  played the parts of villains and heroes in such a tale…

And now, here he was, faced with the chance to finally see just how  _different_ they really were…

Marianne was still waiting for his answer, and Bog shook himself free of the vines of memory that had twined around him and looked at her with a fair amount of both curiosity and trepidation. “Aye, we do. Though I would wager that they’re far different than your own…”

But Marianne shook her head excitedly, her ears waggling slightly. “No, that’s what I want! Don’t you see, we can compare and contrast our fables and legends to get more answers, find more connections. Stories always reveal what people hold dear, values and themes that have to be shared and passed down.” Her eyes shone, her cheeks flushed, and her voice gained a clarity born of fervency. “If we find common themes in our fables, and share them with our scholars and elders, people wouldn’t be able to deny that even if the Kingdoms  _are_ different, it’s not so great as to keep us divided.”

There was a silence after her speech, and Marianne seemed to realize just how passionate she had become, the pink of her cheeks blossoming into scarlet. “I – I mean, we could at least give it a try –"

“I think it’s  _brilliant,”_  Bog said, his smile doing absolutely  _nothing_  to keep the soft, enthused admiration out of his voice.

Marianne froze, and then a grin of incredulous delight stole over her face, her eyes growing even more lustrous. “You  _do?”_

Bog nodded, already reaching for her book, which she readily surrendered. “If we  _are_  able to find the real reason for the separation between our Kingdoms, then perhaps –“

“We can mend it,” Marianne finished, a quiet sort of triumph in her voice.

“And avoid the mistakes they made,” Bog continued, his claws turning the leaves of the book, his eyes jumping from page to page.  _So much to read, so much to discover._  “History repeats itself, we’d be fools not to use it.” 

Marianne nodded fervently. “Exactly. And the whole thing will just, y’know, help us round out our histories, give us a new understanding and context – the possibilities are  _endless_. I mean, just – right here.” Marianne tapped a finger at the text he held. “There’s our story about the first Queen of the Fields and the King she chose. Take a look.”

Bog obediently read.  _“Titania, first Fairy to declare Herself Queen of the Land, and from whom all Fairy Royalty is descended, Her Blood running through their veins as the Sun shines upon the Fields, took Oberon, Dark and Powerful, to be Her King, for He Met and Challenged and gave Her Rule Balance. And so the Fields had their first King…”_ Bog paused, and cocked his head at the wording. “She  _took_  him as King?”

Marianne nodded, shrugging a shoulder. “I always thought it was synonymous for choosing him, but…I mean, Titania  _was_  the one who decided that the Fields needed a ruler. If she was gutsy enough to forge the Crown and declare herself as Queen, I guess taking a King wouldn’t have been beyond her.”

“A tough one…” Bog murmured, looking over the text with new eyes.

“Yeah, she sure was…” Marianne sighed and leaned back against the table, her hands flat on the polished surface. “Titania was said to be almost insanely brave for a Fairy. Vain and arrogant and hot-tempered as hell, but brave. There are legends about her for a reason. People respected her.” She snorted suddenly, a wry twist to her mouth. “Back then, the Fairy Queen held more power than anyone else. Talk about a fable…” she muttered sourly.

Bog didn’t like what the glint in her eye spelled, and was determined to thwart it. “You admire her.”

Marianne looked up at him, wide-eyed with surprise, and he gave her a slant of a smile, a commiserating gleam to his eyes. “Childhood heroine, aye?”

Marianne ducked her head, a blush blooming across her cheeks, but her smile was full of fondness as well as bashfulness. “I…I may have requested repeats of certain stories from Mom at bedtime. Dawn would have fallen asleep by then anyway. And…yeah, I  _guess_  some part of me was thrilled to think that as a Princess, I was connected to her.” Marianne let out an exhale of a laugh, rolling her eyes. “Even though it’s impossible to trace her bloodline, what with its status of a legend.”

Bog took her in, how reminiscing made her eyes positively starry, and looked back down at the text, his slight smirk threatening to edge into something more. “Why bring this particular fable to attention?”

Marianne edged closer, letting her fingers trail over the yellowing parchment where the old words of her Kingdom looked up at her, their script faded. “It’s from this legend that all our other stories come from. So…if we can find any shared links in this one with  _your_  fables, it would be a good start.” She looked at him questioningly. “Would you know of any like that? Any names ringing a bell?”

Bog considered it, gnawing at knuckle in thought. “Goblins don’t place importance on names as fairies do,” he said slowly. “If there was a Titania or Oberon in our legends, we couldn’t know. It’s not about names, but the roles – they would be recognized as King and Queen and left at that.”

He paused, a slight excitement bubbling up in his chest. “Though there  _was_ a legend about how the Kingdoms were once united under a Queen who was said to be from the Fields…”

Marianne perked up, her wings giving a flutter.  _“Really?”_

“But she was said to have ruled with a King from the Forest…” Bog gave a rough, regretful exhale and passed her a frank look. “And if your Oberon was the first Fairy King, it’s obviously not him.”

Marianne sighed with obvious disappointment, her wings wilting behind her. “Fair enough. Honestly, not much is known of Oberon aside from the fact that he was obviously another Fairy and that he knew a lot of magic.” Marianne bit her lip and kept amber eyes on the text in front of her, her tone determinedly light as she continued. “There’s even the a story about him being the first to use the Love Potion. He and Titania fought all the time, and once after a particularly bad scene, he had his servant get the Potion for him to make her fall in love with something hideous. Apparently the results were disastrous, chaos everywhere –"

“Naturally.” Bog hoped he didn’t sound too curt, but Marianne immediately flushed, seeming to know that she was close to crossing a line. Bog wanted to duck his head down, embarrassed at his reaction, but by now it was instinctual. Any mention of the Potion always made an itch of irritation cross down his spine…

_Especially when the idea of falling in love with something **hideous**  was seen as the perfect petty revenge for a quarrel –_

Marianne suddenly took the book from him, her eyes darting around as if in search of a fitting distraction. “You – you said that goblins don’t place importance on names as fairies do,” she said, her words rather breathless. “Has that always been the case?”

Bog gave a slight start, thrown from his thoughts by her words. “Um, for our stories, yes…” Bog said slowly, trying to parse out his thoughts. He looked at the book and realized, a jolt of guilt, that his claws had been scratching at its binding, the faded cloth puckered slightly because the thoughtless drag of his fingers.  _Damn, he had to watch that._

He cleared his throat awkwardly and quickly grabbed some documents scattered across the table to keep his hands occupied. “As I said, the roles matter more in the story than the names. But those of the Forest have names like your own.”

Marianne tilted her head at him, her crown gleaming and her eyes curious. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you. _The Bog King_  – is it your name, or your title?”

Bog grimaced, the scales of his shoulders crackling as he raised them in a shrug. “Ah, both? I was known as the Bog Prince when I was younger, while my father was the Gravener King. Likewise, he was the Gravener Prince while my grandfather was the Blackthorn King.”

Marianne pursed her lips, a considering glint in her eyes. “Bog, Gravener, and Blackthorn…” she murmured, and darted a look at him. “Your dad’s name seems to be the odd one out.”

“Indeed.” Bog shifted through the documents, keeping his head bent, never mind the sheer oddness of hearing her speak so  _casually_  about his father. Casual and the Gravener King simply did not happen. “ _Gravener_  was seen as a rather… _Fairy_  name.” He kept his eyes focused upon the parchment. “My name was an attempt to return to more Goblin roots.”

Indeed, his father had been keen to make sure his heir would not suffer the same mockery that had plagued him. Though what with the savagery his father was capable of inflicting when he ruled, and the fact that he had been known for being even fiercer in his youth, Bog was certain that any would-be bully had found themselves the recipients of a parting gift that only the Gravener Prince’s talons could give.

But Bog had been shyer than his father at that age, unlike most Goblin youth – 

Marianne sighed, a hand drifting up to rub at her neck. “He must have really disliked us. My dad only talked about him in passing, but…”

“There was no love lost between him and the Fairy Kingdom,” Bog affirmed, his tone neither proud nor apologetic. It was what it was, and there was no changing the kind of King his father had been. “My father would speak of yours too.” Snarls and scorn for the Fairy King had been as common in Bog’s childhood as his mother’s stories.

With a start of wry amusement, Bog realized that he now had yet  _another_ thing in common with his father. Though he was sure Marianne’s father  _couldn’t_  have been as wretched as Roland, given that he had sired  _her_  –

“Guess that explains why neither of them sought diplomacy…” Marianne mumbled, her brow furrowing faintly.

Bog took in the faint haze of unhappiness to her eyes at being confronted with the sheer  _dislike_  between the Kingdoms, made so much more personal through fathers. It was one thing to be aware of the animosity between Forest and Field. But to have it brought so close to home…

Bog felt the same crease come to his brow, and he flexed his fingers, trying to think of  _something_  to say to smooth out the misery that lined her forehead, clouded her eyes.

_“A King must make his own choices, boy, an’ one o’ them is how ye choose ta rule.”_

Bog straightened out of his hunch and cut his eyes over to Marianne, her fingers tracing over the cracked binding of the book. His voice was just a shade above soft. “Each ruler must make their own choices. I’ve regretted a fair share of mine.”

Marianne looked up at him, her eyes so large and guileless and strangely desperate, and Bog let his mouth slant in a slight smile as he returned her gaze. “Diplomacy is not one of them.” 

_You’re not one of them._

It was the right thing to say. Marianne bit down on the smile that blossomed upon her lips at that and quickly looked down at the table. Her long lashes fanned across the roses of her cheeks, and Bog felt a faint, inexplicable tug within him at the sight. He had always liked dark lashes on girls –

_What?_

As Bog was hastily repressing the recoil of sheer  _confusion_ such a thought had sparked, Marianne noticed the bundle he had placed upon the table for the first time, and stroked curious fingers over it. “What did you find now?” 

Bog quickly set to unwrapping it, attempting to focus as his claws sliced through Thang’s pathetic attempts at knots. “More herbs, but also some other things as well…” His voice got a faint slyness to it as he held out a few small sachets to her, each one fragrant and crackling with their dried contents. “Since you fairies put  _so_  much in store by your precious teas…”

Marianne eagerly seized it from him, her smile wide. “I would totally call you a jerk if I wasn’t so excited,” she told him, her eyes sparkling. She sniffed at the sachets and her grin grew. “Would it be too much to hope that any of these have medicinal properties too?”

“You know they do,” Bog returned, his grin echoing her own. His voice took on a faux-chiding tone. “Goblins don’t boil leaves for the sheer sake of  _ceremony_ –“

Marianne nudged at him with an elbow, but couldn’t keep back her giggle. “ _Jerk_.” She looked down at the table again, her eyes avid with interest, and she quirked her head when she saw a few fresh flowers tumbling out of the package, scattered upon the table. “What are these? They aren’t dried like your normal healing herbs…”

Bog gave a faint wince. “ _Ah._  Those…those were my mother’s idea. She knows that fairies use flowers to craft garments, and felt I should show you some blooms from the Forest.” Never mind that such petals were dark and jagged and grossly unsuited for dainty creatures of the light, nor that most of their brighter plants were incredibly poisonous and unsuitable to wear…

Marianne lifted a petal that was so darkly red it could almost be black, her fingertips caressing the velvety material, her eyes entranced. “These are…these are  _beautiful_ …”  

Her hushed, heart-felt whisper unleashed a wave of warmth in his chest, and Bog cleared his throat, muffling his mouth with his fist to hide how his mouth was twitching into a grin. “You…you’ll be able to use them?”

Marianne nodded slowly, her fingers still stroking at the petal. “I mean, they’re a bit darker than what most fairies normally wear, but…if your plants are hardier than ours, we might not even have to treat them to preserve them. God, I would  _love_  to have some gowns made out of these…”

Bog couldn’t have even tried to hide his smile now, her delight pleasing him so that he almost forget to be self-conscious. He still ducked his head, and his eyes focused on one of the blossoms upon the table. It was small enough that the whole bloom had been able to fit within the package, a dark, rich blue-purple, its petals lush and full.

Bog’s claws touched it gently, and he looked at Marianne out of the side of his eye, still lost to pouring over the bounty he had brought her. Such a flower was most likely too small to craft a proper garment out of, but…perhaps it could still be used for some sort of décor…?

He inexplicably flashed back to the image of Marianne on that one rainy day, her skin luminous and her dark hair gleaming against the rich, lush plum of her dress – _it would go nicely with that –_

Bog’s eyes darted back to Marianne as she bent further over the different plants, the warm light of the chandeliers giving a sheen to her brunette locks, fairies had such oddly  _soft_  hair –  

And Bog was seized with the sudden and strange desire to see that velvety purple bloom twined into those dark silken strands, his claws twitching with the mad temptation to tuck the bloom behind the smooth slope of her ear,  _it would look_ –

Bog clenched his hand harshly, his eyes wide.  _How could he even **think**  that was –?_

Marianne straightened up with a contented sigh and smiled at him once more. “These are all  _great_. How about we celebrate with trying some of that tea?”

Bog gave her a hasty smile in return that he hoped wasn’t too much like a grimace, his hand still clenched desperately at his side. “Aye, sounds…sounds good…”

As Marianne crossed to the doors, calling for her handmaidens to bring up a tray, Bog exhaled in a slow shudder and held out his hand before him, his fingers unfurling from their tight grip like the ferns of his Forest. His eyes examined it with a strange sort of intensity, as if he could the find the answer he was searching for on its rough hide.

_What the bloody hells was **wrong**  with him?_

* * *

Bog touched down to the balcony, a grimace of both frustration and apology on his face, his words tumbling over themselves in his haste. “I was held up by the Elders and wasn’t able to get to the mushrooms to pass on a message. I’ll understand if you wish to reschedule –"

Marianne, who appeared to be in the midst of pacing, turned to him, a relieved smile on her face. “I’m just glad you’re alright, I was beginning to worry.”

Any further apologies died on Bog’s tongue as he looked at her, and a strange sensation crept over and under his scales, slid up his neck, wove down his spine…

She was a wearing a dress of dark pink rose petals, draped over an underskirt of rich magenta that made her wings shimmer like mad, and her lips carried a faint stain of pink too.

But it was her eyes that had him utterly arrested. She had put something on them, some kind of dark stain that had a soft, strange glitter to it, smoke and shadows and spellbinding. The amber of them had never looked so  _clear_ , fire and honey combined, burning and bright and bewitching…

Bog’s heart gave a queer, heavy thud.  _She…she looked…_

Marianne cocked her head at him, her smile fading a bit. “Is…is something wrong…?”

Bog started out of his daze and immediately flushed in mortification.  _“No!_ I’m –  _uh_  – it’s just…I…” He gripped his scepter tighter, his face burning.  _Oh gods, you great git._  “I just…I’ve never seen you – I mean, a Fairy have…have their eyes like that.” He gestured lamely with a claw, and felt another hot furl of embarrassment go through him.  _Oh, **hells**_.

To his surprise, Marianne’s cheeks turned as pink as her dress, and she gave an embarrassed laugh, looking down as she reached up a slender hand to rub a hand at the back of her neck. “ _Oh_. Um, yeah…I’m…I’m kind of the – well, I was the  _only_  one who, um, wore makeup like this…”

She darted a quick glance up at him,  _and dear gods,_ it was like fire and shadow, what with how her eyes  _flashed_  –

She bit her lip, and her free hand plucked at her gown. “Is…does it look –“

 _“It suits you,”_  Bog said, his voice low and heartfelt.

Marianne blinked, her mouth curling a bit, and once again Bog felt that queer sensation run over him, a thousand inexplicable little shivers trailing over his scales. “Yeah?”

 _“Very.”_  Bog’s tone was so empathetic it almost crossed into something else entirely, and he was vaguely aware that he needed to blink –

A smile of pure pleasure broke over Marianne’s face, and she passed a through her hair in that now familiar gesture, her blush deepening. “ _Flatterer_  –”

Bog shook his head. “Goblins have no patience for flattery. Only honesty matters.” And the honest fact was that this Queen of the Light Fields wore darkness  _damn_  becomingly –

A smile still upon her lips and a blush still blooming across her cheeks, Marianne passed a hand along the line of her cheek and then turned to the table. “Uh, I started going through some more books while waiting for you.” She picked up a heavy tome and hugged it to her chest, her smile growing wide with eagerness. “I went into the older shelves, trying to find more about Oberon –“

Bog noticed that indeed, there  _was_  a fine bit of grime across her skirts and bodice, her crown a touch lopsided and her hair mussed. Looking at her in that moment, covered in dust from the archives, messy and mussed and grinning in exhilaration, Bog was once more struck by how much Marianne’s appearance  _changed_ when she was happy, how  _easily_  joy came to her. How she wore darkness was  _nothing_  compared to the purity happiness gave her features –

Marianne continued on, not noticing how his eyes lingered on her face. “You know how you mentioned that the Forest had a fable about a King from the Forest ruling with a Queen from the Fields? I  _think_  we can connect Oberon to that.”

Bog was pulled out of his musings and cocked a brow at her words, intrigued. “And how would you go about that?”

Marianne leaned against the table. “Well, think about how he was described in our tale.  _Oberon, Dark and Powerful_. What if…what if they weren’t describing his looks? What if they were describing where he came from? Titania was called the Fair One, but she was also called the Light One too.” Marianne leaned forward at that, an intent gleam to her eyes. “ _Because she was born to the Light Fields_. So, what if…”

Bog felt an odd sensation seize him, his throat getting oddly tight, his body going tense, his mind filled with a strange buzzing. Was…was she suggesting that a Fairy had ruled with a –?

“…What if Oberon was a Fairy who came from the Dark Forest?” Marianne shrugged a shoulder, looking both eager and unsure. “A changeling of sorts? It would certainly explain why he was so powerful.”

Bog paused, feeling disorientated.  _Oh._  She hadn’t – she wasn’t going to suggest –

Well, of course she  _wouldn’t_ , such an idea was  _ludicrous_  –

Still… _a changeling_. A creature born of two worlds. Such beings were rumored to be incredibly powerful and thus incredibly dangerous, best left to fables.

He joined her at the table, also leaning against it as he mulled over the idea. “If you’re suggesting that Oberon was a changeling, and was born to the Dark Forest…” Bog said slowly, measuring his words carefully, “…you’ll be saying that the first Fairy King was the spawn of a union between a Goblin and a Fairy.” He leveled a stern stare at her, hoping she would understand his concern. “Many will reject such a theory for sheer disgust alone.” 

Marianne nodded, her eyes a bit grim. “True. But sometimes a shock is needed to shake poison out of a system. And if Oberon was a changeling, who’s to say that he was the only one?” She gestured to the piles of books around her, pages dusty and thick with age. “I was going through some of these to see if there’s any traits of our Royal Line that might be found in those of Goblin Royalty. Certain features, wings, eye color…”

“First stories, now features.” Bog snatched up one of the books and let it fall open, his claws tracing over the yellowing parchment. His words could have been dismissive if not for the gentle teasing in his tone. “You’ll stop at nothing to find a link, will you?”

Marianne laughed, arranging herself upon the table more comfortably. “Like I said, never underestimate a determined Fairy. Besides, I figure it’s better to find as many potential connections as possible.” She picked up a slim book and flipped through it, her eyes scanning the pages before giving a snort. “Even if you  _do_  have to dig through a lot of muck before any potential seeds are found.” She waved the book at him, rolling her eyes. “I swear, some of the theories scholars have come up with…”

Bog leaned over, intrigued. “What is it?”

“Records concerning the bloodline of the Fae, but most of it concentrates on the Fairy Kingdom and its Royal Family. It was supposed to be the pinnacle of science back in its day, but now…” Marianne looked at its cover, an amused twist to her lips. “There’s this whole treatise on Fairy physiology and how our eye color is supposed to be an indication of  _character.”_

Bog let out a bark of disbelieving laughter.  _“What?”_

Marianne grinned at him, her eyes full of shared mirth. “I know, of all things!” She looked back down at the book, her eyes gaining a thoughtful squint as her fingers continued to turn the pages. “It  _is_  sort of interesting though, I’ll give them that. I mean, they get pretty deep.” She pointed a finger at the center of a page. “They say that green eyes were the most common eye color for fairies, whereas now it’s considered a dead giveaway for noble blood. I guess back then those who shared the bloodline of Titania were a lot more common.” She tilted the book back a little further to catch more light. “It also says that those who have them are supposed to possess great drive and ambition, but can also have  _‘weaker grasps of morality and strength.’_ ”

Bog snorted, thinking of Roland’s strikingly green eyes, and Marianne passed him a wry grin. “Yeah, I know. No big surprise there, right? Funny thing is, Dad had green eyes too. Though like I said, it  _is_  a common eye color for nobility here…”

Bog’s lips twisted with his own smirk, before nodding at the book. “What else does it say?”

Marianne hummed to herself, turning to another page. “Hmmm…gray eyes are said to indicate strength, especially that of the mind. Brown eyes…” she paused and then laughed. “Brown eyes have  _two_  whole paragraphs dedicated to them. That’s flattering, considering how common they are…”

Bog eyes went to her of their own accord, once more taking in the contrast of the brilliant hazel with her dark makeup. “What traits were they supposed to have?”

Marianne pursed her lips as she read on. “It differs with each shade. But the main one for all them is sensibility and warmth.” She gave a thoroughly undignified snort. “I was the only one in my family to have brown eyes. Got to wonder what they would say to  _that_ …”

Bog had been about to make a comment about how there was no doubt in  _him_  regarding to her sensibility and fire, but was distracted by her words. “You have neither of your parents eyes?”

Marianne smiled, shrugging a shoulder. “I got my eyes from Mom’s brother, though she passed everything else on to me. Dawn has her eyes; though no one knows where she got her blonde hair…it’s probably from Dad’s side. You’ve met Dawn, right?”

Bog nodded, recalling the wide-eyed trepidation in those innocent, pure blue eyes, so unlike Marianne’s own dark fire. The young Princess had been breathless with nervousness but full of determined politeness when faced with him, and Bog had liked her well enough. A tender little thing when compared to the toughness of her sister, but undoubtedly sweet and true. Her easy joyousness in her interactions with Marianne had brought a smile to the young Queen’s face, and for that alone, Bog had found it easy to warm to her.

The memory of the pale blue hue of her guileless gaze, the same shade of her namesake, had Bog cocking a curious brow at Marianne. “On that note…what does the book say about blue eyes?”

Marianne looked back down, a smile on her lips. “Blue eyes…blue eyes indicate a willingness to trust others,  _‘a heart as open as the sky they share a hue with’_.  They’re supposed to have a certain hope and kindness to the soul.”

Bog gave a harsh laugh, thinking back to the ice-blue gaze of his father. “Load of rot.”

Marianne gave a considering hum, setting the book in her lap. “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, that’s totally applicable to Dawn and Mom.” She paused, before continuing on a bit shyly. “And…well,  _you_  fall under that too.” 

Bog leveled a droll look at her, arching an unimpressed brow. “Aye, because banning Love truly demonstrates  _a willingness to trust others_  –"

Marianne gave a somewhat exasperated huff. “Okay, fair enough, but diplomacy with us definitely does.” She looked away from him, her fingers plucking at her skirts as she continued on. “And…I mean, from what it sounds like, your dealings with the Sugar Plum included quite a betrayal.” She looked back up at him, her eyes both nervous and frank. “And nothing hurts an open heart as badly as broken trust.”

Bog gave a faint growl, his annoyance born from both the familiar irritation over any mention of Plum and the disquieting wave of  _something_  rolling through him to hear her speak so… _understandingly_  about a hurting heart. He grappled to find something to say and fell to the comforting routine of sarcasm, nodding sharply at her book. “They say anything in there about brown eyed fairies not knowing when to leave well enough alone?”

Marianne arched a brow back at him, thoroughly uncowed at the sight of his glower. “No, but they do mention that  _warmth_  can translate into a fieriness of temper and that  _sensibility_  can become tenacity.” Her voice got a bit sardonic. “Especially when dealing with grouchy Kings.”

Bog scowled at her, wishing that such a flinty display didn’t make him want to engage her further. Of  _course_  a battle of wits with her would be as exhilarating as a spar. He slumped against the table, his voice dangerously close to petulant. “ _Why_  must you always argue?”

Marianne snorted. “Why are  _you_  so afraid of people finding out you’re kind?” 

Bog had been about to snap back a retort, but suddenly found that he lacked the air to do so.  _Kind?_

He abruptly looked down, the sudden of breath from his lungs getting rather painful as his heart gave a strange lurch in his chest, just as it had when she had called him – 

_Sweet._

_Kind._

Voices from long ago, ringing in the strange buzzing void of his ears –

_“A King cannae be soft when he rules. Th’ boy needs ta toughen up, Griselda, he cannae control this Forest if he shies away –"_

_“There’s nothin’ wrong with bein’ a sweetie! He’s just a little boy, Gravener!”_

_“He’s a Prince who will inherit mah throne!”_

_“What, ya sayin’ ya want him to be a big evil tough guy like you?”_

_“No, Ah’m sayin’ he’s a Goblin an’ he best start behavin’ like one! Ah won’t have mah boy actin’ like one o’ those soft-hearted, flower dwellin’ whelps –”_

_“Oh for rot’s sake, you are **so** full of it –  **Boggy, sweetheart!**  Oh…honey, go back to bed, Mommy and Daddy are just – just havin’ a talk –"_

_Sweet. Kind. Soft._

Weak. Unfit to rule. Not Goblin enough.

Marianne was watching him; the challenging fire in her eyes dimming in favor of concern as his silence grew, and Bog cleared his throat. “I’m…”

His voice sounded unsure, uncertain, and he grit his teeth, tried to summon up some that old dark conviction he had used countless times before, the savage swagger that had finally endeared the Forest to their Prince. “I’m  _not_ kind. I’m…I’m evil.”

He sounded more disgruntled than ominous, but it didn’t make Marianne bursting into laughter any less insulting.

He recoiled from her, his fangs bared and his scales rattling, and Marianne quickly clapped a hand over her mouth, immediately apologetic.  _“I’m sorry!_ I’m  _so_  sorry, I didn’t mean to –" 

She stopped and dropped her hand, rubbing it over the back of her neck as her whole face flushed, splotchy with embarrassment.  “I…I swear I didn’t mean to, to  _insult_  you, it’s just…”

She looked up at him, her hazel eyes both sincere and forthright. “It’s just…you’re one of the  _least_  evil people I’ve ever know.”

Bog wanted to scowl at her, wanted to assert that  _yes he was, how dare she imply otherwise, he would not be found wanting,_  but was once again distracted by her words. He arched a brow at her sardonically. “You’ve known a great many of them?”

Something in her eyes darkened, and she looked off to the side. “Enough…”

Bog felt something in himself go still as Marianne bit her lip and gave a rather shaky exhale. “Evil…evil doesn’t come  _just_  one way, you know? It can be deliberate, but then…it can also come from thoughtlessness…”

“Ignorance…” Bog said slowly, and oh, this was dangerous ground to tread. It was one thing to label that golden idiot a cad and a prat, but… _evil?_

Then again, he didn’t _live_  with the cur. And hadn’t he witnessed just what kind of misery the lout’s faithlessness had given Marianne?

His thoughts snarled together like roots, and his claws scratched at the table as he tried to put them into words. “Evil… _can_  come in many forms, but for Goblins…we take it as a point of pride. Though I suppose  _wickedness_  is the term fairies would use for what  _we_  do. We don’t seek unnecessary harm.” 

Marianne cocked her head at him thoughtfully. “But you  _do_ seek harm.”

Bog nodded. “Against those who have wronged us? Aye.”

Marianne gave strange smile at that. “That’s what the Fairy Kingdom is supposed to do too…”

_But when it was your husband and King doing you wrong…_

Bog clenched a fist. They ought to move away from such depressing contemplation. Needing to express her pain was something that Bog would never deny Marianne, but  _this_  was just endless, agonizing circles. Bog quickly tried to scrounge up a less harmful topic, and remembered their earlier words. “So…while  _my_  standing is in doubt, would you say your sister meets such traits?”

Marianne’s half-smile quickly became a true one, her expression brightening with soft fondness. “ _Oh yeah._  Willingness to trust others, hope and kindness and openness…” She laughed. “I mean, for god’s sake, her name is  _Dawn_.  _Totally_  her, everyone would agree.”

Bog chuckled, happy to see an honest smile on her once more. “She’s a popular one?”

“Always has been. Dawn charms everyone.” Marianne picked up her book and idly flipped through it once more, her eyes tracking the rustling pages. A strange, soft note of bitterness crept into her voice. “And she leads a charmed life…”

Bog’s brow furrowed in surprise at that, and Marianne seemed to realize how she sounded, for she smiled more warmly as she put the book aside. “I mean, it sounds so silly now, what with me being the oldest, but…I guess I got a bit envious at times. Dawn’s graceful and popular and good at parties, and  _all_ the boys wanted to court her. It drove Dad crazy.” Her fingers toyed with her skirts. “Honestly, everyone was surprised that Roland went for  _me_ instead of her…”

Bog silently took in all the information she was giving so freely, and tried to phrase his question as delicately as possible. “You sister did not lack for suitors. Was…” he hesitated, cracking his neck a bit in unease, before continuing, “…was it the same for you?”

Marianne smiled briefly. “Like I said, Dawn was the popular one. There were a few, but none of them were anything serious.”

Bog looked down at that, his claws still running lightly over the table. His voice was gentle with his next question, his eyes cautious and curious as he looked back at her. “Then, your husband…was…was he the only option as a suitor?”

Marianne looked away, hazel eyes seeing something he couldn’t. “…He was the only one I wanted.”

 _“Why?”_  He couldn’t help it, couldn’t keep the sheer incredulity out of his voice. It was easier to swallow the idea that she had married him out of necessity, it had happened before with royal unions.  _Why_  would someone like  _her_  pine for  _that_ –?

Marianne smiled at him sadly. “He was so good looking. And I thought that was enough, and I couldn’t see –"

She stopped and gave a hard, harsh sigh. “It doesn’t matter. I’m…we’re married now. That’s the end of it.”

 _And your happiness._  Bog knew better than to say that aloud. Besides, Marianne was still talking.

“So, y’know, in the end…I guess we’re even.” Marianne shrugged her shoulders with a determined sort of carelessness, her crown gleaming and her expression enigmatic. “Dawn’s the beauty, I’m the Queen. It balances out.”

She got up off the table with a soft sigh and began to sort the piles of books and documents, leaving Bog to stare at her, his bewilderment silent but stunned.  _Dawn was the beauty?_

Marianne finished with one stack of books and glanced at the entrance of the balcony before starting, her eyes wide. “ _Oh my god_ , it’s already  _dark?_ That…that went by a  _lot_ quicker than I thought it would…”

Bog looked over his shoulder and nearly gave an oath, surprise and dismay surging through him. Night had indeed begun to fall, light already departing from the skies in a faint gold wash, shadows stealing over the Fields. Not wholly shocking, given how close they were to Winter, but that they had been so absorbed in their talk to not even notice the sun setting…

_He had thought they would have more time…_

He grit his teeth in supreme irritation.  _This is what you bloody get for letting the Elders prattle on._

He wasn’t alone in his displeasure. Marianne gave a forlorn sigh, biting her lip as her eyes took in the quickly deepening dusk. “I…I thought we would have more time. I was planning on having a tray sent up, but I guess it would have been too late for tea anyway…”

It was completely pathetic, the swell of disappointment he felt at that, and Bog tried to keep it out of his voice so to retain what dignity he had. “Aye, I…I wouldn’t want you to go through any trouble. It’s my own fault for getting here so late.”

His eyes traversed the darkening sky before landing on the black silhouette of his domain. He gave a grimace and left the table, one set of claws scratching at his neck while the other picked up his scepter. “I…I suppose I ought to head back.”

Marianne’s hands fluttered across the spread of papers as she busied herself once more with gathering books, a melancholic cast to her features. “Of course, if…if you need to…”

He didn’t  _need_  to, not truly. Bog faltered, his wings twitching, and felt a frustrated curse well up in his throat. The irony was not lost on him - after all those times of desperately wanting to seek the sanctuary of his land, to return to its comforting shadows, Bog  _wanted_  to stay at the Fairy Palace, with all its gilded nonsense, its soft glowing light, its annoyingly delicate teacups–

He was free to leave,  _and he didn’t want to go_. He wanted to stay with –

Bog looked down, his brow low and stern with self-admonishment. It didn’t matter what he  _wanted_. There might be no pressing need to attend to back at the Forest, but there was no  _reason_  for him to stay here. He ought to return before it got too late…

Still, a wave of disconsolateness washed over him as he gave a faint nod and started for the balcony, his feet strangely heavy.

Marianne whirled around, her voice loud and oddly desperate. “Unless you’d like to stay for dinner?”

Bog turned back to her with a jolt, his eyes wide.  _“Dinner?”_

Marianne hugged a book to her like a shield, her eyes darting this way and that. “I mean, I – I know you’re not too fond of Fairy food, but –  _um_ , maybe…maybe I could find something that isn’t  _too_  sweet? I mean, if – only if you would  _want_ to –"

She took in his expression and faltered, her eyes large and unsure. “I – you know what, it’s okay, it was – it was  _totally_  impulsive, you don’t need to– I mean, of course you wouldn’t –"

“I would,” Bog said, and oh gods,  _why_ was his voice so traitorously  _earnest?_ “I mean – I’d…I’d  _like_  to, I would, but…”

He fumbled over his words, a war of emotions raging in his chest. He wanted to stay, desperately so, but…it  _was_ late, he  _should_  get back just in case…

Marianne blushed and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Really, you don’t need to feel… _obligated_ , I just – I guess I just –“

She faltered once more and looked down, wincing before taking a deep breath. “I…I guess I just wanted to spend a bit more time together,” she mumbled softly, her eyes still trained on the floor. “Before Winter comes.”

The crash of feelings within Bog quieted to a strange sort of stillness.  _Oh. Gods, he hadn’t even thought…_

He hadn’t tried to think of it, honestly. Oh yes, he was still consumed with preparations for Winter, taking stock of his people’s provisions, checking on the tunnels, seeing if the fireroot was plentiful and prepared for use, but…

These sessions, these meetings…he hadn’t let himself think about the end of them, had merely gone to each one with the intention of enjoying himself, surrendering to the moment, something he had fought against before. But it was so  _easy_  to do so when in her presence…

Which he would soon be without, what with the cold coming and her duty to lead her people to warmer weather.

As soon as the first true frost came…this would end.  _She’ll be gone._

Their eyes found each other’s as silence stretched between them, and Bog felt a sharp, undeniable ache in his chest as blue met hazel. Gods, no wonder she had extended the invitation, had tried to find one more moment to have before all this was claimed by the cold darkness of Winter…

He couldn’t blame her, not when he felt the same, balking at the thought of losing this. He didn’t want to, not yet, he wasn’t ready to –

_To say goodbye._

Bog grit his jaw, grinding his teeth. It didn’t  _matter_  if he was ready or not. Be it willful desire or stubborn rulers,  _nothing_  could delay Winter, and the best thing for both of them to do was to reconcile themselves to that.

_Or take what time that they could with each other._

But…

Bog sighed deeply, looking down. “I  _would_  like to stay,” he said with soft honesty, darting a hesitant glance up at Marianne. “Truly, I would.” His mouth quirked in a slight smile. “Fairy food or not.”

It wasn’t a lie; he would stomach a whole platter of that achingly sweet stuff if it meant having more time with her. Never mind how the thought of sitting down to a meal with her was making his stomach clench in a way that was utterly – 

Marianne gave a tiny, one-sided smile back, her eyes already full of acceptance. “But you can’t.”

“I can’t,” Bog affirmed quietly. “The Forest comes alive at night, I should make my rounds.” His low voice became full of a quiet desperation, his need for her to recognize his sincerity burning through. “But I  _would_  like to stay. To have…” 

_More time with you._

He wondered at how the words echoed even with being unspoken, and he would have flushed hot if not the glint of understanding in Marianne’s eyes, the amber soft with commiserating wistfulness.

She breathed in and shrugged a shoulder, the edge of her mouth lifting too as she struggled to smile. “I mean…it isn’t like this is our last meeting or anything,” she said softly. “The first frost could still be a ways off.”

“But it  _is_  coming,” Bog returned, so quick to see only the grimness of reality.

“I’ll see you again before we leave for Migration,” Marianne said with quiet conviction. Her cheeks flushed a bit under his gaze, but her eyes continued to meet his unwaveringly, a glint of certitude to them. “I…I won’t leave without making sure things are settled between the Kingdoms.”

Bog let out a soft exhale of a laugh, one that felt almost raspy in his throat. She was doing him a mercy, talking about it like that - such comforting platitudes sounded not nearly as pitiable when framed by diplomacy. It was only fair to repay the favor.

“I know you already have your half of the fireroot, but…” he looked down, inexplicably hesitant. “If the weather gets harsh here, while you’re away…I can send some of my scouts to make sure your remaining subjects are alright…”

Marianne smiled at him, warm with gratitude. “That sounds great. I’ll let the elves and the brownies know.”

Bog let out another rasp of a laugh, this one more cynical. “Aye, give them fair warning about goblins knocking on their doors –“

“They’ll appreciate it,” Marianne said firmly, arching a brow at him. “As will I.” Her face softened, and she ran her hand through her hair once more. “It will…it will be good to know that they’ll have someone to look after them when I’m gone, even if I can’t see –"

She stopped, and this time her whole face was suffused by her blush, the pink of it matching the petals of her gown, and Bog felt his heart lurch all over again at her unspoken words.  _Even if I can’t see you._

_She would miss him. She would honest to gods miss him._

Bog’s sigh was silent and pulled deep from his bones.  _Gods be good, he would miss **her.**_

The silence between them grew full of  _something_  that pulled at Bog’s nerves urgently, an inexplicable warning,  _dangerous dangerous dangerous –_

And as irritating as it was, Bog would not tempt his luck any further tonight.

He brought his scepter closer to him, his exhale gusting like the wind and making his shoulders slump before he met Marianne’s gaze once more. “In regards to dinner, perhaps…we can at the next meeting?” He tried not to squirm nervously. “If there’s time?”

Marianne smiled softly, her eyes both wistful and sincere. “I’d like that.” Her smile then quirked with that familiar edge of mischief. “You’ll definitely be able to get some Goblin food together by then.”

“Oh, leave off,” Bog muttered, his slant of a smile belying any bite to his words.

“You tried Fairy food, I would be more than willing to try Goblin food,” Marianne retorted, still smiling.

Bog pointed a claw at her playfully. “I’ll hold you to those words, your majesty.”

Marianne nodded regally, her eyes sparkling. “Of course. A Queen keeps her vows.”

Bog gave a soft, short laugh before looking back at the darkness that awaited him. A new note of resignation crept into his voice. “I best be going…” If he didn’t now, he never would.

Marianne’s eyes dimmed but she nodded, stepping back a bit. “Of course. I’ll…I’ll see you later.” She inclined her head, her eyes flashing to him one last time, bright and dark, shadow and amber. “Goodnight, Bog King.”

Bog leaned in a slight bow, inclining his head as well. “Goodnight, M– _Queen_ Marianne.”

He quickly turned on his heel, his cheeks stinging with the prickle of hot mortification, berating himself soundly in his head.  _Gods_ , it was one thing to  _think_  of her casually, but to actually  _address_  her – and when the  _hells_  had he even begun to think of her so _informally –?_

He could only hope that she hadn’t noticed the slight slip and that he had managed to catch himself in time. As it was, it was with a definite sense of relief that Bog flew off into the darkness, the cold air a bracing comfort on his flushed face.

And if she had, well…

He could only hope that it wouldn’t make their next session  _too_  awkward.

* * *

There hadn’t been a chance to find out.

Not even two days after their meeting, both Kingdoms woke to a world transformed, the breath of goblins and fairies alike hanging heavy in the air as they surveyed what the chill had wrought through the night…

Each blade of grass of the Fields was coated in an undeniable, glittering layer of frost, the land sparkling like a stretch of diamonds in the light of the sun before it melted away. Rime traced over the leaves of the Forest as well, intricate fractals and spiraling patterns smattering across the bark of the trees, the fallen leaves crunching sharply underfoot as the dirt beneath grew hard as iron with the now undeniable cold.

Bog sighed. Winter had come to the Kingdoms.

_And so it ended._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the long wait - I think it’s safe to say that what with the content of each chapter, it simply is gonna take longer to write each one. So, I would say a monthly update is very likely now. 
> 
> That being said, with this chapter, we’re definitely hitting a mid-way point of sorts! Also, I *do* have my Winter break coming up, so we’ll see how much writing I can accomplish during that…
> 
> Also…Marianne was *totally* wearing her eyes like that because she wanted to see if Bog would like it. My sweet awkward butterfly girl.
> 
> Also also, here's some artwork of how I envisioned Marianne's dresses in this chapter: http://suzie-guru.tumblr.com/post/135186396018/marianne-wearing-some-of-the-dresses-she-wears-in


	10. Chapter Nine

_ **Chapter Nine** _

The Forest had always been Dark, in both name and nature. 

Goblins took great pride in such a title for their domain, scorning any attempt to gentle it, tame it into something more  _palatable_ for those who would rather have sunshine upon their skin than the balm of darkness. Such a decree had not been fashioned for the sake of terror or intimidation - though such things certainly  _weren’t_  about to be discouraged - but born of an honesty that was the birthright of each and every Goblin.

To be sure,  _any_  attempt to present less than the truth had long been held as condemnable by the denizens of the Forest. Cunning, wickedness, wildness, ferocity… all were traits admired by goblins. But deception and treachery, speaking false and playing others?  _Never._

_“Leave it ta fluttering fools ta try an’ mask who they are, even as tha’ beloved sun burns down upon ‘em. No matter wha’ they say, it’s darkness that reveals one’s true self, boy, don’ ye forget tha’…”_

And so the Forest was hailed as Dark and stayed as such through all seasons. It was a strange and malleable thing, its presence in the Forest shifting with each season - in Spring darkness was soft, almost sweet, the Forest rendered tender and slow to wake after its long cold sleep, the goblins near lethargic after their stay Underground. New leaves unfurled, tender and thin, and the primroses bloomed tall and proud, their infamous petals glowing with a triumphant blush as they reached for the sun. 

But even the tallest could topple with help from a blade, and slender sprouts always toughened into hardy thorns. Silken petals were ground underfoot, their magic shredded and lost, and the ferocity of the Forest was once again assured…

In Summer, the heat trapped beneath the canopy of the Forest often made darkness a swampishly tangible thing, moist and muggy upon both hide and bark. Yet the same canopy staved off blistering sunlight and protected many a soul from owls and hawks. Summer nights were also undoubtedly brilliant - the leaves rustled in cool night winds, fluttering back to expose the glimmer of stars framed by velvety blue-blackness. On such nights, hunts were wild and bountiful, the silvery moon standing watch as its glow fell upon all equally…

Fall was widely considered the best season by goblins, though the Forest soil had never supported much of a harvest. The trees still had the cover of foliage, now blazing with brilliant color, and the cool weather kept all alert as they gathered supplies and went about their tasks before the frosts came…

Winter, however…

Bog’s exhale was near a growl, his fingers flexing with an irritated mindlessness as he held his scepter, the gesture easily dismissible as an attempt to keep blood moving in this  _thrice damned cold._  At the moment, he was finding it  _very_  difficult indeed to think of any positive qualities regarding the season that was now upon them.  _Skies gray as granite, and a cold that bites like iron…_

He brusquely tugged his cloak around him, the thick drape of the moss and the leather of the batwings doing bloody  _nothing_  to prevent the merciless wind that tore through the Forest, sending bare branches to rattle depressingly. He continued to survey from his perch upon the rocky ledge, the achingly cold stone beneath his feet setting his teeth on edge and making sharp blue eyes narrow as he watched the trudging line of goblins making their way through the checkpoints at the entrance of the main branch of the Tunnels. 

Stuff was in her element, ordering Farrow and Fleasley to the various stations of the inspection and keeping Thang busy with the supply lines set up in front of the main entrance to the Tunnels, all done to ensure that no Goblin entered the Underground with any dangerous objects or left without the standard set of supplies. One year, after a particularly sparse Harvest, a few paltry weapons had gotten through, and the fights over food had taken a dark turn. Bog had banished the miscreants to the cold to scavenge,  _“if yer sae very desperate fer food…”_

Bog’s eyes narrowed further at the memory, well aware that his scrutinizing gaze was getting close to a glare. He bit back an irritated sigh when Thang looked up, undoubtedly inquire if his King was in need of any other help, only to blanche and hastily look back down.  _Cowardly little thing…_

He supposed he ought to feel  _some_ scratch of gratitude over Thang  _finally_ showing some wisdom in not testing his nerves, but  _thrice damned buggering hells_ , this was what awaited him, close quarters and incessant questions and misheard messages,  _no peace to himself, none at all_  –

Bog pinched the bridge of his nose, his brow furrowed and his face tense, another sigh threatening to grate out through clenched teeth. Gods,  _he had to stop this_. It wouldn’t do to work himself into a black mood before heading Underground. He would be doing no one favors with  _that_ , least of all himself, stuck down there until the heaviest of the snows had passed, no safe way in which to vent his frustrations. Only a few of the tunnels connected to chambers that were large enough to accommodate sparring, and if one of his subjects got careless and wandered in at the wrong time –

Bog growled low in his throat, shrugging his cloak up higher around him to muffle the noise, and began to pace, his feet rasping across rough, cold stone with each stride, his claws flexing almost anxiously. 

 _Why_  was he getting so worked up about this,  _why_  was he in such a foul state over  _this_  Winter? He had never actively  _enjoyed_  this time of year, but he had tolerated it well enough, managing it as a King should. And what with the extra bounty the Fairy Kingdom had supplied, it was looking to be one of their easiest –

_The Fairy Kingdom._

Bog stopped his pacing, and his eyes lifted of their own accord to the sky, so stark between the branches of his trees. The last of the fairies had finally departed just two weeks ago, their wings bright against the pale gray of dawn. Bog had watched them leave from the Border, seeing each one off at a respectable difference before he had –

Bog’s scowl softened into something that was threateningly close to morose, and he quickly schooled his features into something sterner as a keen flash of gratitude that his mother was already Underground went through him. 

But his heart, traitor that it was, still pulsed with a dull ache.  _Before he had made his farewell to her…_

Marianne had been watching her subjects take to the sky as well, not too far away from where he had stood. While she would be the one to lead the Migration, Bog was sure that she felt a ruler couldn’t leave her Kingdom until necessity demanded otherwise. Certainly, it would be how  _he_  would feel –

She had been wearing a dress that was closer to a long tunic with a split skirt, an outfit that would undoubtedly stand the trial of travel far better than her usual gowns. She had also sported a maple leaf jacket that had looked to be lined with milkweed fluff that Bog had been sure she would be happy to discard as soon as the weather permitted it. 

_Would it be the only thing she would be happy to leave behind…?_

A strange twist had gone through his chest at that thought as he had watched her, standing alone in her Fields, silhouetted against its dead grasses that whispered in the cold wind. Her eyes had followed each bright flash of color from her people’s wings against the pearl-gray sky, an unreadable expression on her face. The sight of it all had made the strange twist stretch into a gnawing ache, one that Bog hadn’t been able to stop. 

Was she eager to join them, to leave the cold that rattled the trees and swept her Fields? Was she imagining a Southern sun that baked earth and purred upon the skin? She  _had_  spoken of how she loathed leaving on Migration, but that was before the fireroot. Was she now savoring being able to leave without guilt charring at her soul? Was that what was dimming those dark eyes of their usual luster? Was it unhappiness over a delayed departure that pulled at the edges of her mouth? 

Then she had turned to the Border, so much sparser without its usual mess of twining roots and ivy and ferns, and had seen him there. 

Whatever unreadable calm she possessed cracked for the merest second, and something so undeniably  _raw_  flashed through her eyes that Bog had been winded as thoroughly as if a blow had been delivered to his gut. 

And then he had been awash in self-disgust. 

Did he think  _so_  little of her to believe her so eager to condemn herself to that golden idiot? Was he really  _so_  blinded by his own moroseness?  _You great git._

With that in mind he had made his way to her, his feet crunching over the frosty ground, the early morning air too cold to fly comfortably. Marianne had followed suit, sparing a quick glance at the guards who stood behind her. Her scowl at how their hands had drifted to their swords had been an silently eloquent warning, and their haste in withdrawing them had made Bog’s mouth quirk. 

But then she had turned back to him, the grimace fading from her lips as they came closer, her expression softening into a look that had provoked the  _strangest_  feeling in him, rather like the desire to retreat…

He had ignored it, breathing in deep and even, as if to steel himself as they finally met, facing each other straight on.  _Though gods knew why, it had merely been a farewell…_

Neither of them had quite known  _what_  to say, the first few moments spent in an awkward silence, Bog’s claws scraping along the length of his scepter as he tightened his grip, Marianne folding her arms as her teeth caught at her lip. Bog’s eyes had taken in each flicker of hers, so large and dark as they looked at his face, a curious sort of desperation to them…

His tongue had been thick and clumsy and tangled with uncertainty, words catching and scratching at his throat like thorns. When he had  _finally_ managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he had had to take a fortifying breath before speaking, and even then his voice was rather raspy. “I’ll…I’ll send scouts to your subjects as soon as the first snow falls…” 

_Oh, **aye** , talk about  **diplomacy** , that’s  **just**  what she wants to hear…_

The burning prickle of his blush had only taken the chill of the morning air off slightly. “That’s –  _uh_ – if you’ve, um, talked to them about us doing so –“ 

“I have,” Marianne had quickly assured him, her arms unfolding and those dark eyes so earnest. She reached out a hand only to drop it, her fingers tucking into a tight fist. An odd blush had burned across her fair cheeks, lashes dark and lush against the rosy stain as she had looked down. “And…it’s good. The idea, I mean. They said that they appreciate it.” 

Her eyes had shifted from a rich soil brown to pure amber in the early morning light, and Bog had had to make a studied effort to concentrate as she looked up at him and continued on, her face serious and earnest. “As do I. Seriously, it…it means a lot, you doing that. This. Risking the snow, the cold –”

“Not risking much, what with the fireroot,” Bog had said bluntly, though  _gods_ , how he had  _warmed_  at her soft sincerity. Scratching his claws at his scalp, he had tried to think of something else to say. “Any risk will be… _appreciated_  what with how quickly tedium comes to the Tunnels.” His faint, one-sided smile had been both sly and self-deprecating. “I imagine the danger of such a task will banish the stupor of Winter well enough. At the very least, it will be an adventure.” 

And Marianne had laughed, soft and wry, rolling her eyes with no small amount of fondness. “ _Huh_. I should have figured you’d look at it that way –”

Bog had arched a brow. “As opposed to what?”  

Marianne had returned his teasing tone with her own small smirk. “Focusing on doom and gloom.” 

Something in him had  _stuttered_  at how her eyes had looked so very  _fond_  as they wandered over his features, but then her words returned him to the cold of dawn and reality. 

“Aye,  _the Goblin way_ …” he had muttered, his scales crackling and crunching as he shrugged a shoulder, turning away from her. “I suppose your people’s views have rubbed off on me.” 

Any warmth in him withered as he continued on, his fangs baring at the gray sky, the cold earth. “What with darkness coming for those of us here, I suppose I best take what light I can. Goblins _are_  greedy, after all, at least I’ll be keeping true to that –”

“It’s not greedy at all,” Marianne had interpreted firmly. This time she  _had_ reached out to him, her palm a soft, warm weight upon the scales of his arm. Bog had stilled as she continued, her voice soft. “And I shouldn’t have said that, I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

Bog’s resulting blush had been twice as uncomfortable as his first one. “Ye dinnae – Ah mean, ye could nae have –” 

_Hells._

He stopped and sighed harshly before trying once more. “You didn’t upset me,” he had said firmly, then quickly continued on at Marianne’s raised eyebrow. “Truly, you did nothing of the sort. I just…” 

Struggling for words, he had looked over at the dull Fields, so uncharacteristically gray and grim, and at the far off outline of the Fairy Palace. It would have been long since cleared of all things, the grand chambers locked, gilded furniture draped…

His voice had been quiet and clear in the cold, and he had hoped she hadn’t been able to hear the melancholy in it. “I’ve never been eager for Winter. And now…” 

He wasn’t sure how he had intended to finish that sentence, but Marianne had sighed, her arms crossing once more, her bright eyes going dark. “Yeah…now it’s here.” 

Bog’s shoulders had slumped, his sigh echoing hers.  _Now it’s here_. 

No matter how endlessly they had planned for it, no manner how much they talked right then…the moment had come.

She was going, he was staying, and Winter would start its long and bitter reign. 

 _And then it would be naught but cold and darkness and misery_  –

He had accepted it before –  _grudgingly, aye_ – so why did this one make it feel like every inch of him was fighting it, roaring out in protest –?

 _No matter._  He had handled the Winters of the past as a King ought to, he could easily do so now… 

No sooner had Bog come to this decision when a sudden thought had him glancing at her worriedly. “If trouble occurs for your subjects while your away…how shall I let you know?” 

Marianne’s brow had creased in concern before her brow smoothed and her eyes brightened. “A few of the pixies stay behind to keep watch over the Palace, help out the brownies there. Not a lot, but some. If you need to, you can always can give a message to them, they would know how to get to me –”

“Would they?” Bog hadn’t been able to keep the skepticism out of his voice, thinking of the cold and the peril such a journey would demand and how very  _delicate_  the wee, flowery creatures looked – 

“Never underestimate the loyalty of a Pixie,” Marianne said, her smile both wry and fond. “Though they be but little, they’re fierce. They’ll find a way to get any letters you write to me.” 

“ _If_  there’s a need to write you,” Bog had added quickly. “I hope there won’t be.” He desperately did not want to place any extra woe upon her heart, was loath to be the cause of any useless fretting whilst she was away …

But Marianne’s eyes had gone dark at that, ducking her head down as a strange dullness entered her voice. “Oh…of course…” 

He had looked at her, dark head bowed, wings fluttering slightly in the brisk bite of the wind, so suddenly back to morose – 

And gods help him, he hadn’t been able to help himself. 

His voice had been soft and almost pathetically eager. “Feel…free to write whenever you like.” 

Her head had jolted up at that, amber eyes wide, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah?” 

“ _Um_  – I mean, if –  _er_ – only if you’d, um, only if you’d  _want_  to…” Gods, but he had nearly been  _babbling_. “And it’s…not a  _problem_  for you –”

“No problem!” Marianne had blurted out before slapping a hand over her mouth, her cheeks once again flaming. “I mean –  _um_  –“ 

Bog had been no better, stumbling and wincing his way through his words. “I – I wouldn’t want to overtax your handmaidens with the journey –” 

Marianne had drawn up at that, blinking and then frowning in concern. “ _Oh_ …yeah. Um, good point. I mean, I think they do…well,  _okay_  with the cold, the brownies and elves make sure to check on them. But making that journey alone…” 

She stopped and sighed, running a hand through her hair and then shifted to one foot, scratching at her calf with her boot, her expression wary. “We’ll have to see how it goes. I would never want any harm to come to them…” 

“Of course. Especially since they belonged to your mother…” Bog had said slowly, barely aware of his reply what with how the split in her skirt had suddenly revealed of the long, lean line of her leg, clad in long boots and dark trousers, clinging like a second skin…

Each hard line of muscle and smooth curve had been blatantly visible, and some part of him had been suddenly and surprisingly struck with the fact that he had never seen her dressed like  _that_ …

Marianne had blinked at that, looking very surprised. “You _remembered_ that?” 

It had been Bog’s turn to blink at her, startled out of his strange reverie. “You thought I wouldn’t?” 

 _“No!_  No no no, I just –  _um_  – well, it is a  _small_ detail, and most people don’t  _try_  to remember it, and–” Marianne had stopped and laughed slightly, her still rosy cheeks deepening all over again, and she waved her hands in front her apologetically. “God, I’m sorry. I’m making a mess of everything. I’m…I’m not  _used_  to this, usually it’s just to the elves and brownies, and even then, that’s more of a speech–” 

She stopped herself once more and sighed, and had fixed him with a look that was both hesitant and frank, both amused and wistful. “That…that’s a very long-winded way of saying that I’m…pretty awful at goodbyes.” Her laugh had been soft and pained.  _“Obviously.”_   

“I’m not so fair at them either,” Bog had confessed, a wry smile twisting his lips. 

“Well, it  _is_  the first we’ve ever had someone to say–  _um_  - I…I mean, had  _diplomacy_  between our Kingdoms.” Marianne had crossed her arms once more, her eyes strangely shy. “First time for everything, y’know. Including, um, goodbyes.” 

“Aye…” Bog had looked away, oddly overwhelmed by the look in those amber depths, letting . “Well…best keep it… _simple_ , I suppose.” 

 _“Right.”_  Marianne had rocked back on her heels, her arms drawing awkwardly to her sides. “Then…um…” 

Her grin had been sudden and bright as she quickly scooted away from him, giving a wave.  _“Byeee!”_

Bog had watched her go, dumbstruck, and for one wretched moment a hand had lifted away from his scepter, hovering uncertainly, almost as if to reach after her, call her back,  _please don’t_  - 

Before he had even known what was happening, Marianne was back, hands waving and cheeks pink. “Whoa! Uh… _sorry._  Didn’t mean to sound so – I mean, that was –”  

She stopped and sighed once more, burying her face in her hands under Bog’s still bewildered gaze. When she spoke again, her palms had muffled her voice. “I  _swear_  I can do this.” 

Bog had blinked before realizing his hand was still out in the act of reaching for her, and hastily returned it to gripping the staff of his scepter. “I…I know you can.”

Marianne took a deep breath and had finally looked up, her cheeks still pink but a new glint of resolve to her eyes. “I just - ” 

But when she had met his gaze, the strange shyness had come back, her voice almost timid. “Wanted to say…” 

And his heart had inexplicably started racing as he had only been able to stare at her,  _waiting_ –

Marianne bit her lip and gave a nervous laugh, her eyes darting off to the side. “That…I…I hope this Winter isn’t harsh on you.” When her eyes had returned to his, something flickered through them, and her voice had grown soft. “And…I’ll miss…getting to see you.”

The most curious sensation had come over him at that soft admission. He had known she would miss their talks, had known she would – _amazingly_  – miss seeing him,  _but to actually hear it out loud_  – 

Marianne’s shoulders had hunched up with a self-conscious wriggle before she ducked her head once more. “So…take care of yourself.” 

Though her tone had been just a shade above shy, her words still echoed with the ring of an order, and Bog had felt an odd temptation to laugh.  _You cannot stop a Queen from commanding._

Instead, he had stretched his hand out to her, fingers unfurling, palm open and up, and his voice quiet and sincere. “And you as well.” 

Marianne had looked at his hand, her large eyes tracing over his rough hide, his long and gnarled fingers, and Bog had suddenly been brought back to that long ago spar, extending his hand to her to help her rise.  _The look in her eyes was the same –_

She placed her hand in his, and then brought her other one to rest on top of it, her slender fingers just barely covering it. Her eyes had been warm and wistful, her voice soft. “Goodbye, Bog King.” 

He should have responded promptly, but the luster of her golden-brown gaze had distracted him, captured him, drawing him in deeper into their depths. He had suddenly realized it was the last he’d see of them for a good long time…

The silence had stretched between them, and Bog had quickly cleared his throat, dropping his gaze to the sight of her hands holding his. He hadn’t been able to stop his grip from tightening, fingers twining against her own like vines, his palm pressing against her with something almost akin to fierceness. 

His voice had been low, almost a murmur. “Goodbye, Queen Marianne.”  

When she had looked up at him, he could have sworn he had heard her breath catch…

“Your Majesty? The court is ready for you.” 

Hesitant as it was, the call from her guards had made Marianne start, her wings fluttering slightly and her cheeks pinking once more. And then she had nodded and turned away to head back to her people, her hand withdrawing from his like a flower falling from its stem…

Bog had watched her go, his hand slowing drawing back to his side, his fingers still curled. His heart had given a painful thud in his chest, his mind clamoring with protests. 

One last time, he wanted to see them one last time - 

 _Look back. Look back at me_. 

And Marianne’s head had turned, looking back over her shoulder, the golden amber of her eyes  _flashing_ – 

Bog had shivered as a fierce wave of  _something_  swept over him, painful and keen and making him inhale sharp and deep, and for a moment the world hadn’t been gray and dull and cold – 

Then she had looked forward once more and her wings had spread, shimmering purple against the gray of everything, and she had taken to the sky…

And he had watched her, rooted to the earth, pierced by the cold of Winter and reality.  _Gone_ …

“Sire?” 

Bog jolted out of his memories and shot a narrow glare at the Goblin before him. “ _What,_  Thang?” 

Thang squirmed, obviously resisting the urge to cower some more, his wide eyes timid. “Stuff…she wanted me to tell you all goblins are accounted for, if you’re ready to make the final descent.”  

Bog exhaled harshly, irritation and resignation warring within him. “Very well. Leave me be to take a last lookout, and I shall join you.” As King of the Forest, it was his duty to be the last to descend…

Thang nodded and scurried away, and Bog gave a weary, half-hearted glance around the Forest.  _Gods, as if there’s anything to look at anyway_  – 

No matter. The world being barren and gray and holding nothing for him ought to make accepting a retreat into the Tunnels all the more easier, shouldn’t it? 

_“Lies dinnae become goblins, Bog. Harsh an’ hard an’ honest as rock, tha’s us.”_

Bog’s exhale was gentler, though still weary with resignation.  _No, they bloody well don’t, Da._

With a irritated flick of his head to shake off the irksome thought and one last cursory glare about the Forest, Bog hefted his scepter and strode across the icy ledge till he reached its edge. He arched a brow at the steep drop, frowning. Even if the cloak hadn’t weighed him down, it was too cold to fly.

Bog took a slow, even breathe, the cold of the air stinging his lungs, and leapt off the ledge. 

The floor of the Forest rushed to him, and Bog gave a sharp twist as he fell, flipping his body just so. He hit the ground in a roll, the thick layer of fallen leaves comfortably softening the impact, ending up on one knee, his back bowed as his scepter struck into the iron-hard earth, his feet and one set of claws hooking into the dirt as well. His eyes closed as his heart beat steady and strong.  _Not bad._

A clamor of approving growls came from the mouth of the Tunnels, and Bog looked sharply over his shoulder to see Stuff, Muggon, Bloodwart and Thang loitering there, respect on all their faces. Thang even started applauding before Stuff grabbed his hands. The average Goblin had to know how to properly tumble to handle the demands of hunting and climbing through the Forest’s trees. Though they had never said so outright, Bog knew that his subjects appreciated having a King who did not dismiss such skills, even with the privilege his wings afforded him.

Any other time, Bog would have favored them with a triumphant smirk, but now he only grit out a groan as he straightened, sweeping his cloak aside as he turned to them and planted his scepter before him. “You’re free to make the descent. After you’ve reached the main Cavern, check the bolts on the doors to the storage. We can sort out who shall bunk together once I arrive.”

What with how many of his subjects there were and the need for heat, close quarters were simply a necessity. Ruling could be a thankless drudgery, but having his own chambers was one bright spot.  _Not to mention his mother having her own chambers as well…_

But if the nights got cold enough, the warmth from sleeping in a pile  _might_ just have to trump privacy…

As the group of goblins trudged their way down the steep incline of the Tunnel, Bog’s shoulders slumped, the moss of his cloak tickling at his ears. If it came to that, so be it. He could not waste time grousing over such a thought, he was in a bleak enough mood as it was. 

He then looked around and repressed a sigh.  _At least he matched the surroundings._

With that in mind, Bog gave a low grumble as he strode to the low arch of the Tunnel’s entrance, the dark coldness of the passageway gaping up at him. They had torches below that they could use, but each Winter had always begun with a passage through shadowy gloom in order to find refuge. 

Just before he took his first step down that path, Bog paused at the entrance.  _For now, however…_

He was just about to take his first step into the shadows when Bog allowed himself a moment of weakness, his Forest the only thing to witness him, and looked back over his shoulder, eyes straying to the Border…

Nothing bloomed there, the earth icy and hard. The only plants that remained were dark, shriveled things, twisted and tough and clinging to the bark of the trees that stood along the edge of his land, towering fierce and grim and proud like the most silent of sentinels, all seeing and unfeeling. There was no way to see the Fairy Palace from here…

Bog shifted, feeling irrationally annoyed with himself. Well, what comfort could he have taken from it anyway? What warmth could anything offer now? Winter was damn well here and darkness was the only conceivable retreat. Besides, it wasn’t  _truly_  a retreat…darkness was what he had always known, what had always been a comfort…

 _Only when one gets to choose it_. 

Bog grit his teeth, fangs scraping together.  _Enough of this melancholic muck_. He had known this was coming, he had prepared for it. His reluctance for it be damned, he  _was_  ready for it, for what would come –

_The darkness of the earth, the smoke of the fires gathering and rolling across the ceiling before being released up into a void of frost and stars, the unsettling silence of snow a stark clash with the grumbles and squabbles of his goblins, the unending cold of it all…_

_The blaze of Fall, the amber gleam of her eyes, the Sun warm across his back as he flew to the Palace…_

Bog’s sigh was a soft, shredded thing as it passed through his teeth.  _His only warmth would come from memories_. 

His blue eyes fell from the sky to the ground, and he wearily turned back to the entrance. He  _was_  ready. That wasn’t the same as bloody well  _enjoying_ it. 

And with that, Bog straightened his spine and hefted his scepter, taking a deep inhale before crossing over the mouth of the Tunnel, letting himself descend into its depths, each heavy footfall adding punishing weight to his resignation as the dark and the silence and the cold swallowed him up. 

* * *

The stoat’s breath hung in the air as it pressed itself further into the snow, panting hard as its bright black eyes warily darted back and forth, gauging what move to make. Muggon raised his bow, drawing back the string and slitting his eyes as he considered his shot, but he swiftly let it drop at the silently severe gesture from his King. 

Giving him a look of warning, Bog turned his attention back upon their prey, a scowl of concentration furrowing his face. This would be difficult. The beast was damn quick, even with the snow hampering it - the trick would be to wear it down. But one had to be wary of the hunters exhausting themselves before that, and what with how long they had been tracking the damned thing…

Bog bit back his growl, lest he alert the beast to where he was hidden amongst the underbrush near the giant oak tree. Gods, would that a squirrel had been spotted. Those tended to be nice and fat and slow. S _lower than this bugger at any rate._   

Bog’s exhilaration of the Hunt had been fierce at first, welcoming the burn of the chase and the need for quick wits, inwardly rejoicing when Muggon’s keen eyes had caught the black flash of the stoat’s tail against the snow. 

But after long hours and little progress, his temper had turned to irritation. There was working off all the frustration of inaction during the first snows, and then there was hunger. It had been too long since his people had had nice, bloody fresh meat in their guts…

Not to mention the effects of the fireroot was steadily wearing off. Bog had been forced to don his cloak, rendering him unable to use his wings, a fact that was making him grind his teeth. He could have consumed more of the tonic, but there was more Winter to come, and he would  _not_  be the one to waste their supply needlessly now that they were sharing it with the Fairy Kingdom.

The stoat darted back and forth, its paws scrabbling over the slick snowy leaves, and Bog narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. The beast must have sensed it was getting cornered…and the fact that it was reacting with panic…

It neared the trunk of his oak, edging along the roots, and Bog quickly signaled the two goblins flanking him to head to the right, Bloodwart swiftly leading the way. If they could push it to the clearing amongst the trees, there was a chance they could get the kill before dusk truly settled. 

Bog then nodded to Muggon, who raised his bow once more after impatiently shifting his cloak out of the way. The tattered fur rasped softly over the bark of the tree, and Bog spared it a brief glance before hefting his scepter into position, grimacing slightly. That was another thing the creature could give them – stoats had good pelts, and it wouldn’t do to have his hunters dressed in rags that did nothing to keep the cold out if they had to forgo fireroot…

Muggon breathed out, slow and steady, and fired off a shot, striking the snow and making the beast explode into a flurry of movement, flailing about in panic. Two more arrows came from Fletcher and Root, stationed higher up in the trees, sending the stoat barreling over to where Bloodwart and his group waited with their spears. 

Bog gripped his scepter as he saw Bloodwart raise his weapon.  _Strike true_ –

But then a panicked cry rent the air, causing Bloodwart to fumble, dropping his spear in surprise.  _“Sire!”_

The stoat was off in a flash, and Bog swore explosively before clawing his way out of the underbrush, Muggon running past him and barking orders to the rest of the party to follow. 

Bog whirled around to face the Goblin who had dared to interrupt the Hunt, his scales flaring in temper beneath his cloak as he saw Fleasley struggling towards him through the snow.  _“What? What is sae bludy important tha’ ye had ta cost us our meal?”_   

Fleasley panted as he neared, tripping over his furs and his mole-like features anxious. “I was sent to report- the other half of the Hunt – they found – right by the stream, Boil almost stepped on one –“ 

Bloodwart and Muggon hurried up to him, but Bog held up a claw and fixed a fierce glare upon Fleasley.  _“Either cease yer natterin’ or get ta th’ bludy point –“_

 _“Ice nettles,”_  Fleasley lisped frantically. 

Bog’s rage dulled as he felt a cold shiver lance down between his wings, and Muggon and Bloodwart’s eyes widened in shock and fear. 

Fleasley licked his lips and continued on, his shiver not wholly due to the cold. “They’re growing all along the bank, we don’t dare touch them to see how deep the roots go–“ 

Bog quickly turned to Muggon, his voice low and rough with his command. “Continue the Hunt in my stead as I take care of this. Bloodwart, find a torch and then join us at the stream. We’ll need to char everything.” 

They quickly departed, and Bog turned back to Fleasley, an undercurrent of unease in his voice. “You said Boil stepped on one?” 

“Almost, Sire, but Farrow spotted them in time –“ 

Bog nodded, relieved, and then started off to the stream, Fleasley hurrying after his King’s long strides. Boil was a dismissive curmudgeon at the best of times, but Bog wouldn’t wish the pain of ice nettles upon his worst enemy –

Fleasley was still hopping behind him, and with an impatient growl Bog seized him by the scruff of his furry collar before shrugging his own cloak off and taking to the air. Fleasley muffled his squeak of fright at the sudden height, and Bog rolled his eyes before flying off through the Forest, the cold wind snapping at his wings. 

A few minutes later, Bog was crouched at the bank, the stream trickling by, his expression tense and wary as he looked at the jagged leaves and sharp prickles of the plants before him. The long nettles that crowned them glinted diamond-bright and fine as needles as they all swayed slightly in the breeze, so very innocent looking. It was a disturbingly large growth…

Reaching out a hand, Bog clawed at the hard dirt near the base of the plants, taking care to not brush against its stalk. The crowd of goblins behind him shifted in unease, and several worried murmurs were given. “Careful, Sire…”, “Don’t slice the roots, BK…” 

“I bloody well know what I’m doing,” Bog muttered, working his hand deep into the icy soil and giving a series of soft, carefully measured tugs on the base of the plant. Besides, it was the nettles one had to worry about… 

There was a slight tearing sound, and Bog gave a satisfied grunt as the plant came free. He quickly stood up, holding it for all to see, and the goblins recoiled slightly at the sight of their King clutching such thing. “The roots don’t go terribly deep. We’ll char this lot to the ground, and then we’ll turn up the earth. They shan’t grow again.” There were a few sighs of relief, and when Bloodwart appeared with a lit torch, his craggy face stoic but his eyes anxious, Bog waved him forward. “Have at it.” 

Smoke soon filled the air, and Bog was thankful for the snow that surrounded them would stop the blaze from spreading further. The one good thing about ice nettles was that they needed true cold to bloom – most likely the spray of the stream had set this batch off. If left unchecked, however, they’d continue to grow past Winter, get stubborn and tough…

Bog grimaced as the smoke stung his nose as the nettles caught ablaze, withering black in the heat, an almost minty smell released into the air.  _And then there’d be trouble._

While fireroot could be very dangerous, at least goblins had found a tamer use for it. The same could not be said for the poison of ice nettles. One scratch would lead to the cut becoming black with frostbite if not treated swiftly. If consumed, even diluted in a tea…Bog repressed a shudder. His mother had refused to tell such tales, but headstrong little wretch he had been, Bog had immediately looked for them in the Archives. 

And had damn well found them. He hadn’t been able to sleep properly for a week after that… 

He was the first of the Kings of the Dark Forest to nurse a hatred for the primroses, but each ruler before him had learned to fear the sting of this plant. Like the fireroot, it had been a popular poison in olden times, until one of his ancestors had wisely decided it was simply safer to do away with it entirely.  _Too dangerous_. Now it was a secret that the Forest guarded carefully lest an enemy try to use it against them…

The plants now lay scattered upon the ground, the needles smoldering and singed and useless. At a snap of their King’s claws, the goblins quickly fell to raking claws through the embers and ashes, their urgency to utterly destroy any remains quelling any fear of lingering heat. Some shuddered as their fingers brushed against the blackened nettles, and Bog couldn’t find it in himself to blame them. 

And thus one danger was taken care of. Now if only they could do something about –

“Your majesty!” 

Bog bit back a groan and turned to face Muggon, dragging his King’s cloak through the slush and the snow as he hurried to the bank. “What went wrong with the Hunt now?” 

But Muggon was grinning, his eyes sharp with victory. “The stoat escaped, but we found some squirrels – nice fat ones too. Looks like an owl got to them before we scared it off. A bit picked over, but still plenty of meat, good and bloody and fresh. I told the hunters to start skinning –”

“Make sure to bring the bones too, we can use the marrow.” Bog’s mouth positively watered at the prospect, his mood already lifting. It wasn’t the thrilling kill he had hoped to claim, but meat was meat, and even Kings were ruled by hunger. 

Giving the first honest smile he had had in a long time, Bog seized his cloak from Muggon and whirled it over his shoulders. “Muggon and Bloodwart, you help get the carcasses quartered and cleaned. I don’t want the furs torn apart.” 

“You lot –” Bog turned to the rest of the goblins, their eyes fixed upon their leader with rapt and hungry eagerness. “Head back to the Tunnels and get the fires going. Haul out one of the mead casks while you’re at it.” Bog bared his fangs in a grin that was sharp with hunger and pride, and hoisted his scepter overhead, the amber gleaming out in the dusky shadows. “TONIGHT, WE HAVE MEAT!”

The goblins roars echoed throughout the Forest, their howls seeming to push against the very stars themselves. 

* * *

Bog settled back against the curved wall of the Cavern, gnarled roots climbing up the earthy wall, his sigh low and contented. Gods, but it had been too long since they had eaten properly. One could get by one tubers and roots, aye, but to actually look forward to a meal?  _That_  had been a welcome change. 

Even now, goblins continued to gnaw away at squirrel bones, scraping every last bit of sinew away, cracking them to suck on the marrow. Not mention that preserving trick the Fairy Kingdom used meant fresh grains and fruit with this feast. Add to that the generous sloshing about of mead and ale, and the glow of a very fierce fire…

Bog smirked into his glass before draining it, drawing the back of his hand over his mouth when he was done.  _Not a bad end to a Hunt at all._

His subjects were of the same opinion, though expressed their pleasure in a far more raucous manner. A towering bonfire had been built in the middle of the Cavern, the cooking pits blazing bright and the squirrels spitted and sizzling. The smoke from it had billowed across the ceiling in great eddies before escaping through the vent that released it into the cold night air, but not before the succulent smell of it all that had whipped the crowd into a slavering frenzy. Griselda had had to bark for order before she and her helpers went to work, serving up the fragrantly steaming meat on bark trays, her beady eyes sternly watching for any overeager fingers.  

Though his mouth had watered with want, Bog had kept an equally stern eye to make sure everyone got an equal share. Only then had he taken his portion from his mother, ignoring her comments about him needing to eat more,  _you’re not doin’ yourself any favors by skimping on meals, honey_. 

He now rolled his eyes. Perhaps not, but when it meant his subjects all had something good in their guts, he would readily continue to do so. 

The sheer ferocity of the goblins carousing and enjoyment only proved how much the Hunt’s success had been needed. As drink loosened tongues, songs filled the air as sure as smoke, and now there were more than a few knots of goblins thrashing and stamping as they danced about in front of the blaze. Bog snorted to himself, unable to keep a rather fond smirk off his face.  _True terrors of the Dark Forest, they are._

Still smiling slightly, meat in his body and mead in his gullet, Bog let his eyes wander over the mass of his goblins, all of them in the midst of having a righteously good time. Muggon was spiritedly debating hunting techniques with Bloodwart and Moldia as Marrow and Root snored into their tankards. Stuff rolled her eyes at them as she cleaned off her plate, and Boil was enjoying a brief bit of popularity over his brush with the ice nettles, recounting the incident to a knot of fascinated Goblin youth. 

Meanwhile, Thang and Mucus and Fleasley were dancing their hearts out, though Thang’s frantic hopping and flailing about could have been from trodding on a stray ember. Bog snorted to himself good-naturedly and continued to scan the crowd, idly lifting his glass to his mouth before pausing. 

Farrow and Fletcher had finished with their meals and still nursed their tankards, but neither meat nor drink seemed to be of any interest to them. Instead, they appeared to be quite intent on conversing with some Goblin maids. 

Undoubtedly they were telling them about the Hunt and their roles in it, Farrow miming throwing a spear and Fletcher nonchalantly showing off a scar Bog was certain didn’t come from this Hunt at all. The lasses seemed utterly beguiled, eyes wide and fascinated. One was already quite comfy with Fletcher, her fangs bared in a laugh and her gaze admiring as it wandered over his beak and large ears. 

Bog’s smile fell fast, and he quickly looked away only to be confronted with other such sights – mates snuggling in front of the fire, twining fingers caught in the cozy glow, youths swapping both morsels of food and flirtatious banter. Even Moldia had paused in her rebuttal of the superiority of spears over bows to give Muggon a hopeful look, though he hadn’t appeared to notice…

Bog set his glass down, the sweetness of the mead inexplicably souring in his mouth. It wasn’t unusual for the blood to get up after a Hunt, the heat of the chase igniting other fires. But this wasn’t that. 

Bog watched them once more, a queer ache coming over him. This was…

“Sure is a nice night to snuggle up with a sweetheart, hmmm?” 

Bog started, then closed his eyes wearily as his mother approached, tugging her shawl tight, her smile affectionate.  _Of bloody course she’d catch him like this –_

“I left Brutus to finish cleanin’ off the last skeleton,” Griselda announced airily as she daintily lifted her skirt to settle down next to her son, giving a groan of satisfaction. “Might actually fall asleep in it, the big lug.” She drew her short little legs up and beamed maternally at Bog. “As I was sayin’, sure ain’t nothin’ nicer, gettin’ all cozy in front of a fire after a long day of huntin’, ‘specially if you have a sweetie to cuddle with.”

 _Not now, Mother_. Bog was able to keep his mouth shut and instead leaned back against the slope of the wall, crossing his arms and keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. When he spoke, his tone dry. “I distinctly remember getting a promise from someone that they weren’t to send any suitors my way during the Winter –“ 

“A promise I’m gonna keep and regret to my dyin’ day,” Griselda returned with equal dryness. She sighed wistfully. “It really  _would_  be the perfect time for you to meet with some new ladies, but,” she shrugged philosophically, “I guess it would get just a titch awkward if it didn’t work out while keepin’ close quarters. And I  _definitely_ don’t wanna make you more of a grouch than you already are.” 

Bog shot her a look, eyes narrowed. “Oh,  _much_  obliged.” 

“I don’t  _like_  seein’ you in a mood, honey,” Griselda tutted. She then paused and shrugged once more, a wry slant to her mouth. “Well, more of one than usual.” 

Bog made a noise somewhere between a snort and a snarl, and Griselda sighed again before fixing him with a frank look. “And for some reason or other, this particular Winter has been rough on you. Ya need to get somethin’ off your carapace, honey?” 

Bog resisted the urge to duck his head at his mother’s tone, her normally brash voice gentle with inquiry, and half-heartedly shrugged a shoulder, his scales shifting underneath his cloak. “It’s nothin’…” 

Griselda clicked her tongue, rolling her eyes. “Ya know, sometimes I forget you’ve been ruling for fifteen years, you’re still such a teenager sometimes. Somethin’s been getting under your scales, sweet-pea. Usually a Hunt jazzes ya like nothin’ else, but here ya are…” 

Bog  _did_  duck his head down at that, torn between embarrassment and irritation over the reminder that his mother was damn more perceptive than she let on. He lifted his head to dismiss her questions, put an end to her prying –

But then felt his heart clench once more with that same queer ache from earlier as his eyes once more took in the sight of all those couples in the Cavern. 

Bog closed his eyes and exhaled, short and sharp and between his teeth.  _To hells with it._

He looked over at Griselda, still intently watching him, and waved a claw out the crowd. “They know I banned Love,” Bog said, and she rolled her eyes at the petulant edge to his voice. Bog ignored her in favor of continuing on. “They  _know_ I did, and yet…”

“When ya first made that ridiculous decree, ya promised all the marriages were still valid as a pact between two parties,” Griselda said firmly. “You’re  _not_  about to go back on that – “

“I’m not,” Bog agreed readily, feeling faintly annoyance when her shoulders slumped in obvious relief. “But…to see them,  _all_ of them, like this…” 

He lapsed into silence once more, his tongue tangled with emotions he wasn’t sure he could name, and the gesture of his claw was one helpless with frustration. 

Griselda’s voice was low and scratchy, warm with understanding. “It gets to ya.” 

It was rare when Bog appreciated his mother’s unnerving ability to pick up on his thoughts, but now was such a time. He nodded shortly, his grimace furrowing his face even more. 

Griselda sighed, long and loud, her eyes alight with sad sympathy. “Oh,  _Boggy_. There’s no shame in feelin’ lonely, sweetheart –“ 

 _“Ah’m not bludy lonely,”_  Bog snarled quietly, masking his horror at the word as best he could. Gods, if his subjects heard her – who had ever heard of a  _King_  getting lonely,  _pining_  for company? 

_“Dinnae be soft, boy. A Prince does nae need playfellows, he needs subjects – ”_

“Yeah ya are,” Griselda retorted, and she crossed her thin arms as her son gave her a growl, not at all cowed. “You’ve been that way for far too long, but now, for whatever reason, it’s hittin’ ya hard.” She looked at him closely, and her voice softened once more. “Why is that?” 

Bog opened his mouth, then closed it, looking away. “I…” 

_I wasn’t lonely when she was here._

Bog caught his flinch just in time and quickly burrowed further down into his cloak, the fur and moss of the collar tickling his ears. “I…I don’t know.” 

Griselda gave a little shiver and rubbed her hands briskly up and down her arms, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes at him. “You’re lyin’, either to me or to yourself. Either way, you’re  _terrible_  at it.” 

Bog scowled, hunching his shoulders up higher as they began to rattle with temper.  _“Goblins dinnae lie.”_

Griselda let out a huff of laughter before giving another shiver, fiercer this time. “Nah, they just evade the truth an’ call it a  _tactical retreat_.”

Her teeth were positively chattering, and Bog frowned at her, brought out of his sulk as his brow furrowed in concern. “Mother, are you -?” 

Griselda shook her head, waving a blasé hand. “ _Pffft_ , I’m fine. These old bones just let the chill in a bit more. It’s nothin’ to get your wings in a twist about –“ 

A heap of moss and bat wings suddenly draped over her, and Griselda blinked in surprise before her expression melted.  _“Awww,_  Boggy, ya shouldn’t, ya  _need_  this –“ 

“You need it more.” Bog’s voice brooked no argument. He then quickly grabbed his glass and stood, swaying just a touch before reaching out to grab his scepter, clutching it to steady himself. “An’ I can find another. But first I need to find some peace away from this lot.” 

His mother gazed up at him from the floor, the heavy swath of his cape pooling around her as a loving smile curved her lips. “You’re a good boy, Boggy. Ya deserve to be happy.” 

Bog rolled his eyes. “I  _deserve_  to be left alone.” 

She still smiled, but her beady eyes got soft and sad. “I don’t want ya to be alone, sweetheart.” 

Any retort he had been about to give died on his tongue, and Bog looked down, his claws flexing on his scepter, not sure how to respond. “I’m stronger that way,” he finally managed to say, low and rough.  _I have to be._

Griselda looked like she was about to offer a rebuttal, but Bog drained his mead to the last drop and then turned on his heel, making his way to one of the Tunnels. “If one of these wretches sets themselves on fire, you can sort it out,” he called over his shoulder, his voice slightly thick. “Heal them or let them char. I’ll be busy with finding a cloak and then some sleep.”

 _But before that,_ Bog thought, passing Brutus, who was indeed slumbering quite peacefully in one of the thoroughly cleaned off skeletons, _one last drink._

* * *

Bog settled down onto the bench with a deep and weary sigh, his face oddly warm. He was inclined to blame it on the makeshift cloak he had made out of the mossy blankets and hides from his chambers rather than his _– sixth? Seventh? Surely nothing higher than seven_ – most  _recent_  helping of mead. A flagon had been filled with a generous amount, doled out from one of the casks stored deep in the heart of the Tunnels. Thank the gods it was, he couldn’t handle the rumble and roar and echo of the Cavern now. Just thinking about it made his skull ache. 

Bog shook his head slightly in an attempt to clear it, and winced at how his head throbbed all the more fiercely before giving a low and hateful growl. Hells, this was  _ridiculous_  – the mead his people came up with wasn’t nearly as strong as their ale, and he had always managed  _that_  well enough. 

Though he couldn’t recall ever drinking six or seven glasses of ale, even all those ages ago, testing his mettle against the other Goblin youth –  

The empty room spun a bit, and Bog was tempted for one sore moment to lay his head down upon the table of the dining area before straightening up with a vicious quickness, gritting his fangs against the nauseating dizziness _. It doesn’t matter if they’re all back in the Cavern, you’re not about to act the drunkard_. 

He  _wasn’t_  drunk, not truly. Surely he wouldn’t have been able to think so clearly if he was. Though Bog wasn’t sure of anything just then – all that was certain was a darkness edged with fire and the brush of moss and hide over his scales and the sweetness of mead in his throat –  _he normally didn’t go for such a honeyed taste, but one made do_  – and how all of it was sent ever so slightly swirling and spinning around him, sitting there on his own.  _All alone_ …

Bog ruminated on that before reaching for his whatever-the-hells number glass of mead, his grip fierce and his eyes narrowed.  _Alone._

_“I deserve to be left alone.”_

_“I don’t want ya to be alone, sweetheart.”_

He laughed, sour and soft and bitter. Of course he  _deserved_  it – hideous things didn’t warrant true company. They clung to the shadows and watched happy couples with hungry eyes and ignored how scarred old hearts were aching…

He took a hard gulp of mead, barely noticing it slosh upon the table. Gods, but he was being pathetic. Being alone was what he knew, and what’s more, it was what he had  _chosen_. He had stuck to that path, and he wasn’t about to be bloody swayed from it. Fine time to get soft, after nearly fourteen years –

 _But all that was before you met her_ ,  _wasn’t it?_

Bog set his glass down heavily, the jarring thud of it upon the table shuddering up his arm, making him feel another undeniable wave of nausea. He closed his eyes fiercely, his mutter scraping past his teeth, low and loaded with self-disgust.  _“Ta hells with it…”_

It didn’t matter if he  _was_  missing Marianne, craving her company, starved for the sight of her smile, the flash of her eyes. There was nothing to be done about it. She was in the Southern Fairy Empire, and he was here. She had sun and Roland, and he had snow and an aching head. It was as simple as that. He wasn’t helping himself, nor his subjects, by letting his misery rule as he pined after her company.

Not that he was  _miserable_. Or  _pining_. He had simply grown used to her company, that was all. And given how starved he had been for intelligent conversation before meeting her, it was only  _natural_  that he was feeling its loss so keenly –  

And if he wondered from time to time if she was experiencing the same ache…

Bog sighed, leaning an arm upon the table and letting his thorny chin settle into a palm, the sharp line of his mouth tugging down in morose contemplation. She probably wasn’t. If she had, surely she would have sent a letter by now. He had told her she was free to write back whenever she liked, hadn’t he? 

 _He_  could be the one to send a letter, true, but Bog would be damned before he caused her any unneeded alarm. They had been to the Elf Village a few times now, after every heavy snowfall, and all had been relatively well there, nothing truly amiss. The elves and brownies were still meek when faced with his people, wary with that first visit, but after experiencing the fireroot, there had been a new warmth to their welcome in the visits that followed.  _In more ways than one._

Bog gave a low growl of a chuckle, his eyes getting heavy. Gods, maybe he  _was_  drunk if he was laughing at such poor wit. The low laughter faded into a silence that echoed, and Bog was left to study the dregs of his glass before he abruptly seized the flagon and poured himself a new drink, the honey colored liquid burbling and sloshing as it filled his glass. He went to take the first swallow, then paused, holding it up before him, his blue eyes intent. 

There was no roar of a bonfire in this chamber, but the flames of from the torches lit it all the same, flickering shadows dancing across the earthen walls. Those same flames made the mead glow a warm, darkly delicious amber. 

Bog idly turned the glass back and forth, his eyes still watching the gleam of the liquid, the warmth of the hue.  _Her eyes_ …it was nearly the same color, but nothing could match  _their_  luster…

_“Dawn’s the beauty, I’m the Queen. It balances out.”_

Busy as he had been with contemplating his drink, the echo of those words took him by surprise, the memory of Marianne’s voice wry even now. Bog halted, setting his glass aside.  _Dawn’s the beauty…_

Bog knew that she was beautiful by her people’s standards. Though the courtiers at the Fairy Kingdom were quick to gush and flutter about the light beauty of her sister, swift to paint out the sunbeam gold of her hair and the guileless blue of her eyes, it was obviously agreed that they had been blessed with a Queen whose looks were quite satisfactory indeed by Fairy standards. 

Marianne was dark-eyed and brunette in a culture that favored all that was light, but she was certainly not  _defective_  in anyway, the praise for her looks sincere if a bit more subdued when compared to what was heaped upon Princess Dawn. Bog had rolled his eyes numerous times at such careful flattery, his disdain sharp and heavy for the panicked care that the fools displayed when it came to looks.

But…he hadn’t been able to stop himself from watching Marianne, and as he did so, he also couldn’t help but wonder why it was her  _sister_  who was held as the exceptional one. What were flaxen locks compared to hair that was as silky fine and glossy dark as the most gossamer of spider webs? How could eyes that spoke of the gentle blue of dawn hold a candle to a gaze of molten honey, inviting one to drown in their warm depths? 

Fairies craved and demanded light, but…Marianne  _was_  light, so full of it that she damn near  _burned_. Not the gentle sunlight of her sister, but fire and passion and ferocity, smoldering away in the midst of all those pale, fragile creatures. 

They feared that fire, aye, but Bog…he was merely drawn to it. 

But if Marianne was fire, hers was a flame that grew dimmer each day, reduced to a small and flickering state under that oaf of a King…

Bog sighed and pushed his drink away, a definite dull pounding back beneath his skull. He was becoming maudlin…perhaps it was best if he stopped drinking. 

He stood up from the bench and almost immediately tripped, the combination of his cloak and his dizzied senses a poor one. Yes,  _definitely_ best if he stopped drinking.  

With several pained, poisonous mutters Bog managed to extract himself away from the bench and the table, a dull sort of pride filling him as he kept himself upright. Now…to find his way back to his room. 

Never mind the Hunt,  _that_  would be the true challenge. 

* * *

_The Forest is Dark but still glows, moonlight striking across shadow, snow shining silver before it melts under his feet into firefly-like embers that float away from him, swirling through the air, dancing bright through the darkness –_

_He should tread soft but doesn’t, too intent—_

_It is Winter still, some part of him knows that, knows that he should be cold, but instead his blood races, hot and heady and coursing under his scales, crackling over him like the charge after a lightning strike –_

_His blood swims, his head spins, and yet he is as keen and sharp and quick as a blade. He is Hunting, and **oh** , he is  **close**  – _

_The Beast stalks from shadow to shadow to shadow. It knows this land well, but **he**  is the King here – _

_Scales glint under the moonlight as the Prey tries to hide, and the night reveals the nicks and scars and unworthiness of its armor, all that is invisible to the Sun but revealed by the Dark –_

_His fangs are bared, his claws are hooked, his breath hot and heavy and bestial upon his tongue. He wants its blood to course down his gullet, he wants to see it **writhe**  – _

_He strikes hard, clawing out of the darkness –_

_But the Beast strikes first._

_It pounces on the Prey, taking it to the Forest floor, and something bright and golden **spatters** across the silver white of the snow – _

_Bog is not wrathful. Losing this Hunt holds no shame when the victor has such worthy ferocity, and he comes closer to the Beast as it consumes its Prey, drawn despite the obvious danger of it all –_

_And then the Beast looks up, and her eyes are amber and animal, flash like fire and intoxicate like mead, such a **wild**  thing, so very – _

_“Different,” Marianne says, her mouth bright with golden blood, and Bog cannot tell if she bites into the word or purrs it. Her tongue slides along her lips, catching the blood there, and Bog isn’t sure which one he wants to taste more. “A Queen claims a King.”_

_And now it is no longer blood that stains the snow but thousands of petals, rent and torn into delicate, fluttering little pieces. Buttercups, cheerful and bright and yellow and savaged –_

_And her Prey stares up at him with flat and dull and dead green eyes –_

* * *

There was no sunlight to be found Underground, thank the gods. 

But Bog wasn’t feeling any kind of thankful as his mother’s lantern flared across his eyes like the swipe of a blade as she strode into his room with an unnecessarily loud “MORNING, HONEY!” 

Bog gave a shuddering wince, his whole body wanting to flare in protest. He would have, but every movement was a discomfort, each sound setting a pounding through him like a battering ram was trying to crack its way out of his skull. 

Griselda gave him a wide grin, but her eyes were slits of disproval. “Awww, did someone have a teensy bit too much to drink last night? Poor  _you_.” 

Bog groaned and resisted the urge to tug his blankets over his head. Thank the gods that he had managed to collapse across his bed last night, splayed as his limbs were. If this was how she was reacting now, he knew he would have  _never_  heard the end of her scolding if she had caught him sleeping the mead off on the floor –  

Griselda crossed her arms, giving him a hard look. “I hope this ain’t gonna become a common thing. I didn’t raise any fools, so don’t ya go start actin’ like one –” 

“Ye know me better than tha’,” Bog ground out, his voice a rasp and his eyes slits of agony. He struggled to sit up before collapsing back against his bed, the softness of the moss and hides and furs doing absolutely bloody  _nothing_ to ease his wretchedness. “Last night will  _nae_  be happenin’ again, Ah can assure ye.” 

 _“Good.”_  Griselda eyed her son before shaking her head, her sigh both rueful and concerned. “I wouldn’t fuss if I wasn’t worried, sweet-pea. You’ve done such a good job stayin’ away from heavy drinkin’, I don’t wanna see that stop –“ 

 _“It won’t,”_  Bog grit out, and this time he  _did_  tug a blanket over him. It did little to muffle the noise of everything, but at least the light wasn’t piercing him so. “Ah’m not cut out for tha’ kind of debauchery.” 

His mother’s chuckle was wry and warm. “Has himself a royal hangover and he can  _still_  wrangle words like that. You’re somethin’ else, honey.” He heard the shuffle of her feet as she crossed to him, and he felt her pat his blanket covered back. “Here’s to hopin’ that ya can wrangle that headache the same way ya do your Kingly duties. The goblins set one of the ale casks on fire last night. I told them you would sort it out.” 

Bog groaned as he heard her leave the chamber, cheerfully whistling _. Thrice damned bloody **hells.**_

* * *

Bloodwart slammed into the wall, quickly followed by Fletcher and Farrow, who let out identical groans at impact. Only Muggon remained, eyes alert and face wary as he faced his King. 

Bog’s fangs bared themselves.  _“Attack. An’ this time bludy put some effort inta it.”_

Muggon’s eyes narrowed at the taunt, and Bog let his smile get malicious. Muggon never did him the discourtesy of blunting his blows, but anything that would make the spar fiercer –

Muggon growled low in his throat and moved with sudden swiftness, swinging himself around his spear to run up the wall, kicking out at his King from the higher angle –

Bog’s scepter caught him right in the gut, and Muggon grunted with pain, tucking himself around the scepter–

Bog found his scepter pulled from his hand as Muggon fell,  _damn but he’s a clever one_  – 

Forced between losing his weapon and staying on balance or keeping it and taking a fall, Bog took a third option and used Muggon’s momentum against him, grunting as he swung his scepter up from the ground. Now it was Muggon who was forced to let go, lest he became embedded in the chamber’s ceiling. 

Tumbling across the floor in a sprawling roll, Muggon struggled to sit up before letting his head fall back with a groan.  _“Yield.”_

Bog snarled, irrationally incensed. “Ye dinnae have to admit defeat so quickly! Th’ match can still be yours!” 

“Sire, the match has gone on for almost three hours,” Bloodwart pointed out, his deep growl almost plaintive as he used the wall to push himself up, legs somewhat shaky. 

“Claim this spar, your majesty,” Muggon agreed, his eyes sincere even as his mouth was tugged down in a faint grimace. Though there was no shame in losing to his King, Muggon had a warrior’s pride and didn’t yield lightly. “You’re thrashing us.” 

Any other time Bog would have savored such words, let the burn of his blood and breath fan the flame of well-earned victory. But now he snarled, stalking back and forth along the dirt floor of the sparring chamber. “That’s because yer lettin’ the Winter make ye soft! Four goblins against one, ye should have trounced me ages ago–” 

“Four goblins against one King,” Farrow corrected with a gasp as he clambered to his feet. 

“A King who has a foul mood to work off…” Fletcher muttered, still rubbing dazedly at his skull. 

Bog’s scales flared as he whirled upon the small Goblin, fangs bared again.  _“What was tha’?!”_

But Muggon quickly stepped forward, effectively blocking the smaller Goblin from their ruler’s wrath. “Impudence withstanding,” he said swiftly, shooting Fletcher a poisonous look that made the Goblin cower anew, “this bout won’t serve anyone well by continuing, your majesty.”  _Least of all you_ , his expression said. 

Bog snarled once more, torn between exhausted irritation and begrudging guilt. He  _was_  being hard on them, he knew it. He  _was_ in an utterly black mood that wasn’t showing any signs of abating, no matter how hard he sparred.  _Two weeks of being kept Underground by heavy snows, and you’ve let yourself become a bully, transform into a tyrant._

Bog’s sigh as sharp with equal parts self-disgust and irritation. Gods, but this was misery. “Ah’ll claim th’ spar,” he muttered far more petulantly than he would have cared to admit, and resisted the urge to grind his teeth when there was a faint but obvious sigh of relief. Gods, either he was getting truly vicious in his frustrated inaction, or this lot was getting as soft as sludge. Muggon and Bloodwart could usually be counted on for a proper bout, but now…something was simply  _different_. Lacking. Try as he might, Bog could put his claw on it…

–  _a sword striking his scepter, the amber of his weapon the only thing that could possibly compare to her eyes_  –

Bog exhaled harshly, wanting to blame the hotness itching over his scales on the burn of the spar but knowing all too well he couldn’t.  _Or maybe you bloody well do know what’s different, you great stubborn prat._

Loathe as he was to confront any more evidence of such a thing, it seemed like no matter what he did, everything brought him back to Marianne. Or, more appropriately, her absence.  _Even the mead isn’t safe_. Bog briefly flinched at the memory of that horror of a hangover. 

As soon as he thought it was fine, it all was brought to the forefront with a blazing ache that faded into a dull pulse of pain, like a wound being reopened.  _Gods, but he missed her…_

Bog lost himself in his thoughts as his subjects got their bearings once more, dusting themselves off and wiping sweaty brows and grumbling. Farrow and Fletcher fell to comparing their bruises, and Bloodwart and Muggon exchanged a brief look before approaching their King, eyes wary but resolved. 

“Your majesty, if you’re truly worried about the warriors being unprepared for Spring, we can establish some new training drills to help–” Bloodwart began, his eyes worried. 

“Tha’s not th’ case,” Bog said shortly. He then sighed, rubbing a hand at his scaly brow. “This is not – we’ve been held in here for too long, I’m simply frustrated –”

“We’ve noticed,” Muggon said, his tone dry, and he didn’t flinch when his King glared at him. His expression was deadpan, but his eyes were strangely concerned. “Forgive us the impudence, your majesty, but this Winter…you’ve been acting–” He stopped, obviously searching for the right word. 

“Different?” Bloodwart supplied. 

 _“Different,”_  Muggon affirmed, giving his cohort a grateful nod. “And we know that’s what you like, but –”

“But this isn’t  _good_  different,” Bloodwart interjected, eyes anxious.  “It’s—”

“None o’ yer bludy business, tha’s what it is,” Bog said in a low, ominous growl, glaring at them from beneath harsh, heavy brows. 

“It is when nearly half your subjects have noticed,” Muggon countered, his voice almost a snap. 

“Ye forget yerself, Muggon,” Bog snarled, beginning to get truly angry. 

“He only means that some have noticed something has been… _bothering_  you, your majesty,” Bloodwart hastily explained, edging himself in front of a still glowering but rather abashed Muggon. “And we know you would not devote any concern to trivial matters. It isn’t our intention to pry—”

“Well ye damn well are,” Bog snapped. 

“–But we would like to offer any aid we can give.” Bloodwart looked exhausted from such a speech - he was a Goblin of few words, never saying anything unless he truly meant it. That fact made a discomforting prickle of guilty shame creep over the seam of Bog’s scales as Bloodwart licked his lips before continuing on, his rumbling voice low and worried. “After all, it’s the duty of a Kingdom to stand with their King.” 

“And to call him out when he being a right—” Muggon swore, looking at Bloodwart with betrayed fury as the Goblin calmly took his spear away from Muggon’s foot.  _“I wasn’t going to say –!”_

“Enough,” Bog ordered, any anger in him fading away into a weariness that weighed heavy upon each and every inch of his scales. Gods, what a fine mess he had gotten himself into. “I’ve…I’ve been harsh this Winter, I know. And…indeed, certain matters have been occupying me. But…” Bog said, meeting both of their gazes to show them his sincere seriousness, “…I can take care of such matters.”  _And myself._

Muggon and Bloodwart still looked skeptical, and another rush of irritation came over Bog, this time at himself. Hells, but how far had he fallen if his subjects were noticing whatever mood he was in? It was one thing to have Mother pick up on any surliness, but if his people saw it…if they talked, mutters behind his back spreading like poisonous vines, nothing good could grow from  _that_ —

There was a sudden commotion by the door of the sparring chamber, and Fleasley tumbled into the room, tangled up in a cloak that trailed snow. “Sire! The snows! They’ve—”

He was then interrupted by Stuff and Thang colliding with him, equally dusted with snow. 

There were a few smothered snorts from the goblins, and Bog bit back a sigh and his temper. “The snows  _what?”_  Hells, if they had worsened –

“They’ve stopped!” Thang gasped from somewhere beneath Stuff. 

“The skies are completely clear!” Stuff added, as openly excited as Bog had ever seen her. 

Fleasley nodded eagerly, reedy claws clasping before him almost thankfully. “So that means–”

“We can leave,” Bog breathed, gratitude making his eyes close.  _“Finally.”_

All the goblins present broke into sighs of relief and babbles of excitement. As for himself, Bog’s wings were already beginning to twitch from anticipation as he opened his eyes to give his orders, the blue of them sharp and clear. “We’ll need to check the traps we laid before the snows came, see if we’ve caught anything and fix any damages done by the snowfall. Those will need to be taken care of before we set for another Hunt. But that shan’t be long. Muggon…” Bog grinned, fangs sharp, “…get a tracking party together.” 

Muggon’s grin was clearly one that held back a triumphant whoop, and went to rush from the chambers. 

“We should go to the Elf Village as well, see how they’ve been faring!” Thang piped up helpfully. 

Muggon skidded to a halt and groaned loudly, giving Thang an exasperated look that had him cowering. “Surely the Hunt can come before  _that_ —”

“No, Thang is right,” Bog said. 

Several pairs of eyes boggled at him, Thang’s the widest as he gaped at his King.  _“I am?”_

Bog nodded, claws scratching at his scalp, ruffling the scales there. “If the snows have kept us Underground in the Forest, I imagine it would have been even worse in the Fields, exposed as they are to the elements. Helping them shall take precedence over the Hunt.” 

Muggon looked thoroughly put out, shoulders slumping. “Snow drifts will need to be hauled, fireroot will need to be distributed and then replenished –”

“We will honor our pledge to the Fairy Kingdom,” Stuff said sternly, scowling at Muggon at such unprofessional impatience. “BK promised Queen Marianne—”

Bog’s heart inexplicably clenched, hearing her name spoken so casually. 

“–and we’ve watched over them and kept to the deal well enough so far.” 

“The Hunt can wait, Muggon,” Fleasley lisped in agreement, worried concern in his eyes. “Two weeks of hard snow is annoying for us, but it might mean life or death to those in the Fields.” 

Bloodwart sidled up to his friend, clapping a heavy hand upon Muggon’s shoulder. “You said so yourself, Mug, at least the elves and the little furry things aren’t snobs like the fairies are–”

Muggon sighed at that, a warily philosophical expression on his face. “True enough.” 

He then caught sight of his King’s narrowing eyes and hastily continued on, clumsy and quick. “I mean – the fairies aren’t – well, they  _are_ snobs, but not all of them are, their Queen is alright –”

“Careful you don’t stumble from such a retreat, Muggon,” Bog said dryly, making the rest of the goblins laugh and causing even Muggon to betray a smile, shamefaced as it was. Such unexpected mirth held back the other sharp flare of pain at yet another mention of Marianne.  _Gods, this is getting bloody ridiculous._

Shaking his head slightly at himself, Bog gave his orders. “Fetch the fireroot we’ve set aside for the Village – Stuff, you’re to measure what we have left, see if we’ll need to brew more.” He hoped they wouldn’t. The elves and brownies and other creatures hadn’t needed too much to begin with, it being so new to them, but the effects of the fireroot could get quite addicting. Extra batches of it could cut into their own supply, something Bog was determined to avoid, even with the end of this Winter getting closer. 

That in mind, he continued on, his fingers drumming on his scepter. “Thang and Fleasley, drag out the cloaks, have Brutus help if they prove too cumbersome. We can give some out to the elves, have them distribute them amongst themselves. Muggon, stay with to the Forest and lead the inspections of the traps. Report back to me when you’re done. Bloodwart, you’re to get a group together and come with me to the Fields.”

Bloodwart raised a brow but said nothing to question his King’s judgment, and Bog had a feeling he knew what he was about. The two of them were some of the more fearsome looking of the goblins, and seeing them in a position of organizing and offering aid certainly wouldn’t hurt their reputations amongst the villagers. 

It would be fine, Bog thought as the goblins rushed off to take care of their allotted tasks. They’d leave the darkness of the Underground, taste some fresh on their tongues, and settle and soothe raw nerves and fractious tempers. Such a task was welcome, far from any kind of daunting. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been to the Village before. 

It wasn’t like being in the Fields, the sight of the Fairy Palace, would push him into missing her even more than he already did –

Bog closed his eyes, his exhale harsh as he tried to focus upon clear skies, on darkness retreating from a sun that would melt snows. It would be fine.  _He_ would be fine. 

Hells, he  _was_ fine. 

* * *

Bog barely caught his groan as he closed his eyes against the blinding glare of the sun on snow. He was a  _fool._   

Elves and goblins mingled in the Village square, Field and Forest coming together to trade blankets, distribute fireroot, shift snow away from where it had banked over homes. Bog stool back from the crowd, content to observe. The elves were a cheerful lot by nature, Marianne had said so countless times, open-hearted and grateful to any who would offer them aid. Actually, her exact words had been  _“trusting to a fault,”_  the statement accompanied by a wry if affectionate eye-roll, and Bog had had to bit down on a chuckle when he recalled her brother-in-law was an Elf.  _Speaking from experience, are we, your highness?_    

Still, no matter what experience Marianne had with her sister’s husband, he had to concede that the Elf’s people worked well with his own. While there had been a number of closed doors and shuttered windows when the goblins had come after the first snow, wary and wide eyes peering out from behind both, even the cold of Winter couldn’t stop the elves from warming to their benefactors from the Dark Forest. There had even been some invitations to stay for their communal dinners and sings. 

Bog had declined, but some of the goblins had looked tempted, though they had loyally followed their King’s lead. On the whole though, it could not be denied his subjects got on very well with the creature who chose to reside in the Fields as opposed to the Palace. Bog had toyed with the idea that one reason for such a difference in their interactions was partly due to the elves stature. They could look the majority of his goblins straight on as opposed to gazing down on them as the fairies did. _In more ways than one._

He would have snorted at the thought if he hadn’t been so irrationally and irritatingly out of sorts. Though gods knew  _why_  - everything was going well, nothing was out of order. The elves were getting cared for and were being quite gracious indeed. Some of the younger ones had even been waiting for them, climbing on top of snow covered thatched roofs and gasping excitedly when their party had come into view. A few wee lasses had even  _waved_  to him, and while he hadn’t had the faintest bloody idea on how to react to  _that_ , Bog had taken it as a positive sign. If children didn’t fear him, then perhaps their parents would be next. Indeed, he should have been pleased on all fronts. 

_If he wasn’t so bloody **miserable**. _

And he didn’t know bloody  _why_ , and he bloody knew it was beginning to show what with how Bloodwart was eyeing him, and if Bloodwart was getting wary then there went not scaring the children and  _thrice damned hells, **what**  had sent him into such a  **state**_ —

Snarling as low as he could, hoping the collar of his cloak would muffle the sound of it, Bog turned away from the Village lest anyone caught sight of the fearsome Bog King descending into the depths of a black mood. As soon as he did, he realized his mistake. 

The Fairy Palace was a stark and stern mass of stone before him, the snow capping it doing nothing to lessen such solid grimness. It had never looked so looming, so large, so utterly lifeless and cold…

Bog stared at it, his fingers flexing restlessly on the staff of his scepter. It hadn’t been so grim before, not during the Fall –

The memory surrounded him before Bog could stop it– the warmth of Fall sunshine across his wings as he flew here, the aroma of the tea she would have prepared, the soft sound of pages turning underscoring their discussions, her words fierce and fast in her eagerness to know more, to know  _everything_ , those golden-brown eyes wide and bright and curious, the Library full of warmth and life and undeniable enjoyment –

Bog gripped his scepter tight, his inhale rather shaky. Hard to believe that same liveliness happened in such a cold and stony place, looking at it now. Hard to recall the feel of that warmth from so long ago. 

Gods, he had actually looked forward to waking up on those days…

There was a sudden chirp by his ear, cheerful and quite loud. 

Bog turned sharply, instantly on alert. Once he saw the source, he immediately relaxed, sighing as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Pardons, I…I didn’t see you there –” 

The little Pixie – an especially small one, tiny and golden yellow as a living streak of sunlight - giggled and chirped again, waving a hand in a cheerfully blasé gesture. She then flipped in the air to zip around him, trilling in welcome and radiating warmth. 

Bog tried to summon up a smile, but he feared it came out a wince. The wee flowery thing had evidently just sampled some fireroot and had decided to thank him. No doubt that was the cause of such exuberant friendliness. Although now that he thought on it, almost  _all_  the pixies he had encountered after meeting Marianne’s small trio had been quite… _unafraid_ of him. Affectionate, even, strange as it was to think. Perhaps Marianne had instructed them to behave so…

Thinking of her giving such instructions, such attention to him, sent his shoulders slumping –

The tiny creature slowed in her mad flight, stopping in front of his face to give an enquiring squeak, her eyes large and black and innocent. 

Thankfully his time with Marianne had made him reasonably well-versed in their language, and Bog immediately tried to fix a stoic, regal expression upon his face, shrugging back his shoulders with a determined carelessness. “Yes, quite alright, Lady…” –Damn, what was her name? Yellow, yellow, only a few of them were yellow, and he was sure there were no Buttercups to this bunch, so she must be–“ _Daffodil.”_ Bog cleared his throat quickly. “Um… _yes,_ Lady Daffodil. I’m fine, merely…merely watching the proceedings.” 

Daffodil tilted her head like a baby bat and chirped confusedly, gesturing to the Village and to where Bog stood.  _Facing away from it._

Bog winced, short and sharp.  _Bugger._  “Ah… _right_. Well, I was…I was taking a moment to,  _uh_ , look at your Palace as well, see if all was alright there too…” He gave a brief shrug he would be damned to call helpless. “I know your folk and some of the brownies reside there during the season to care for it, I wouldn’t want it to fall into any kind of danger of disrepair –” He stopped and bit down on an oath, hastening on and stumbling over his words. “I mean, not that you would  _let_  it fall into disrepair –”

His fumbling words came to a halt as Daffodil floated closer, her tiny brow furrowed as she examined him. Evidently what she saw was not to her liking, given how her jaw set, but there was no disgust in her expression. In fact, her jet eyes seemed to gleam with a strange worry, and the soft trill she gave was edged with something Bog might have called concern if such an idea hadn’t been so patently  _ridiculous_. 

Bog sighed, the sound dragging through his fangs.  _Everything about this whole wretched Winter has been ridiculous, and none more so than you._

He barely paid attention as he gave his reply, his voice low and dull as his eyes fixed sightlessly on the Fairy Palace. “Yes, of course I’m alright. No need to worry.” 

Instead of pacifying her, his words seemed to inspire even more consternation in Daffodil, and she turned to look at the Palace as well. An odd look of determination came into her dark eyes, and she gave a quick little nod of inexplicable decisiveness. Before Bog could ponder over it, the young creature gave his nose a soft little pat and an almost comforting chirp, her tiny face sympathetic. She then promptly zipped away, undoubtedly to return to the Palace and her sisters. 

Bog could only stare after her, quite unable to blink.  _What just happened?_

He stood in the snow, stunned and silent, until a call of “Sire, we’ve finished with the supplies!” came from behind him. 

Bog started, then sighed, shaking himself a bit before trudging through the snow to head back to the crowd. At least shock was a respite from dreary discontent. 

* * *

The melting snow crunched cold and crisply satisfying beneath his feet, and Bog squinted against the sun as he surveyed his Castle. “So there’s no true damage done?” 

“Nothing but the same issues with mold we had last Winter,” replied Hedgewort, also squinting against the deluge of light as he looked up at his King’s fortress. He blinked blearily as he continued on, dry as tinder.  _“And_ the Winter before that one. I maintain that now would make a fine opportunity for your majesty to search for a new, sounder structure –” 

“The Castle has survived the Gravener King’s reign, it will stand for mine,” Bog said shortly, scowling at the mere thought of the sheer trouble seeking out a new Castle would invite. Everything would have to be moved, not to mention the time that sorting and transporting the Armory and the Archives would take. And there was the issue of needing a strong dungeon –

No, best he keep to what was known. What had worked in the past would serve him well now. He crossed his arms, pulling his cloak tighter. “Is it safe for us to begin to move back?”

“Not for at least four more weeks, your majesty,” Hedgewort said, eyeing the structure distrustfully. “While warmer weather may indeed be on its way, there’s still a chance for storms. You wouldn’t want to wake to find yourself snowed in with only a handful of your subjects and supplies, surely?” 

Bog rolled his eyes. “That’s only a concern when we’re in the midst of the heaviest snows, and the time for that has well since passed –”

_“Sire! New from the Border!”_

The two goblins spun around to the sight of Fleasley and Thang making their way as quick as they could in the Stuff’s wake, Thang still struggling despite the snows lessened drifts. Bog’s scales shifted beneath his cloak, tensing to flare in agitation _. “What is it?”_  Gods, usually they had till Spring to worry about trouble at the Border –

But there was no alarm in Stuff’s face, merely bewilderment as she held out a sheaf of neatly rolled parchment to him. “There was an Elf there, that big one, said he was instructed by a Brownie, who had been told by a Pixie, to come here and get this to you. Said that it was for your eyes alone—”

She squawked in alarm as Bog practically clawed it out of her hands, his breath short and his heart caught between bursting and clenching as the royal seal of the Fairy Kingdom gleamed goldenly up at him in the sunlight. But it was the scent that wafted through the air, clung to the parchment, faint and flowery and familiar,  _so_  achingly familiar, freesia and fresh and  _her_ – 

_A letter. A letter from **her.**_

His claws were clutching at the parchment, fingers locked and knuckles pale, his breathing low and harsh, almost panting, how his heart was thudding hard with the most beautiful agony –

“Uhhh…Sire? Everything okay?”

He looked up sharply to see Stuff, Thang, Fleasley and Hedgewort all looking at him, their eyes large and undeniably worried as they took in the sudden change in their King. 

It Bog all of five seconds to decide his next course of action. “Stuff, continue inspecting the Border. Hedgewort, you’re to do the same with the Castle. All of you keep to your tasks while I –” He stopped, flushing at how his words rushed from him, matching the tempo of his heart. “I – I need to take care of this, see what it says, what –”

_What she’s written, see her handwriting, the curve and flow her letters –_

The letter crinkled as Bog clutched it close, the paper pressed between his palm and the drum of his heartbeat. “I’ve got to go,” he said quickly, almost blurting it out, taking to the air before belatedly realizing his wings were hampered by his cloak. He hastily pulled it off, shoving it under an arm whilst still trying to hold his scepter and keep a firm grip on the letter. “Disturb me and I’ll destroy you, understand?” 

The threat was instinctual, distracted as he was, but the nods of his subjects were swift and wide-eyed, the shock of their King’s new behavior apparently enough to convince them of the severity of the situation. 

Formalities thus concluded, Bog wasted no further time in speeding off to the Tunnels, his wings thrumming as hard as his heart, anticipation and nerves coursing through him like the pull of a swollen stream.  ** _Why_** _had she written, was there danger, what had finally compelled her to –?_

Bog hadn’t the faintest idea what it could have been, and in that moment - the air on his wings cold and crisp, the letter in his hand almost in danger of becoming ash before he read it, the excitement coursing through him was so hot - he couldn’t care for anything else besides one thing. 

_She had written to him. She had remembered him._

* * *

After one furiously frantic flight through the Underground and a slew of orders to not be disturbed – aided in that regard by his mother, who had taken one look at his face and had begun barking a few more orders of her own, albeit far more colorful ones - Bog strode into his chamber, dumping his cloak to the floor with a heavy  _flump_ , and his scepter quickly clattering after it. Bog paid it no mind as his claws sliced through the length of ivy that tied it together, far sturdier than the usual length of spider silk.  _How far has this traveled?_   

Bog shook his head, refusing to be distracted, and quickly unfurled the roll of parchment, hands holding it flat as he sat down on the edge of his bed. Another faint tease of Marianne’s perfume curled up through the air to him, and Bog closed his eyes briefly as it washed over him before opening them to read her words. 

_To the Bog King of the Dark Forest –_

_Dear Bog King,_

_My father once told me a ruler should never begin a letter with either a plea or a confession, nothing that puts them in a position of vulnerability. And here I am, beginning this with two confessions. The first one is that despite all the previous times I’ve written to you and your Kingdom, I still spent nearly ten minutes debating on how to address you here. I wasn’t able to decide, so you get both. As for the second one…_

_Even after going so long without any words between us, I still debated over sending this letter. I’ve wanted to write to you so many times this Winter, but each time I sat down at my desk, I remembered your words at our last meeting – how you didn’t want to overtax my pixies, how you hoped there wouldn’t be a need to write to me – and I felt ashamed to be so tempted. And then there’s my track record with sending impulsive letters to the Dark Forest (though in all fairness, that first one did work out). Causing you any unnecessary alarm is the last thing I wanted to do. Thinking about this Winter, how it’s been treating you, how you now have looking after my remaining subjects added to your usual burdens…the idea that a letter from me would cause even the slightest more stress made me feel guilty even contemplating it. _

_Some of that guilt is still there, even as I sit here, writing these words. But then Daffodil’s message came and I just couldn’t_  – something was crossed out, a slash of ink through the words rendering it unreadable to Bog –  _help myself. So…that concludes all confessions, and thus I am rendered appropriately vulnerable. Strangely enough, I’m okay with that when it comes to you._

_The Southern Fairy Empire is as stunning as it always is, which makes me even more impatient with the attitude I’ve had all Winter. It’s terribly contradictory, feeling so frustrated, languishing in such a beautiful place, but I suppose it all comes back to my personality – I’m rarely happy when I have nothing to do. I’ve been that way since I was small – so many of our nursemaids would try and change shifts so they could look after Dawn instead of me. If I wasn’t kept occupied, I’d decide to go off and have “an adventure”, and then there’d be hell to pay. Sure can’t do that now, being Queen and all. Sunny and Dawn are here, of course, and they help, but they deserve this time to relax, not try to cheer up a mopey sister/sister-in-law. Besides, given how snobby some of our courtiers can still be to Sunny, I can’t blame them for wanting to get away. It makes me feel awful, that he’s still facing that – I obviously need to crack down on that. Apparently there’s only so many times you can delicately hint at decapitation… _

_I have been keeping busy with trying to keep the passion for our diplomacy alive, though, so that’s definitely an improvement from previous Winters. There’s actually been some success too, absolutely no help to the majority of our councilors here. If they had their way, the whole thing would be torn down just like your primroses. Luckily I’m good friends with the Queen here – Jasmine has been very interested in all the progress we’ve made, everything we’ve been exploring in regards to the possible links in our histories. She’s contemplating reaching out to the creatures that reside in the jungles here. It feels funny, thinking of goblins living in a place where the sunshine seems endless, but considering how dense and dark and frankly dangerous the rainforests are here, it does make sense. Makes me wonder if any of them would resemble your people…_

_It also makes me wonder what you would think of this place. Honestly, I think you would like it – the sun is constant and the heat is something else, but I could see you appreciating the creatures they have here, respecting their deadliness.  You would probably like Jasmine too – seeing her is one of the few things I look forward to each Winter. Honestly, she’s one of my favorite people – took the throne at an even younger age than I did, rules with no King, and the way she handles her Empire is incredible. You’d find her impressive, I’m sure. She’s very curious about you, by the way - you might even end up getting another letter._

_Sorry, I keep talking about myself. How have you been handling this Winter? Has it been terribly harsh? I hope the elves and the brownies appreciate the help you’ve been providing (I already know the pixies do, you’ve won them over entirely, big surprise). Is the fireroot the success we hoped it would be? It would be so great to report that it was and watch faces of all the old windbags on the Council crumble. _

_Sorry. I keep doing that.  I swear I can be a mature and judicious Queen. The councilors and advisors here have just been…well, their usual selves. Normally I can deal with it, but after all those talks with you…I guess I’ve been spoiled. I’m starved for intelligent conversation (such a complaint doesn’t apply to Jasmine and Sunny and Dawn, of course). I can’t talk to anyone here the way I can with you. _

_I’m rereading all of this now and it sounds more like a journal entry than a letter from one ruler to another. The Council would undoubtedly proclaim it another skill that I “lack the proper mastery of”, another area in which I “display an unseemly amount of passion.” My hand to the skies, actual quotes from them._

_My Queenly verdict? They can go screw themselves. Wish I could actually say that to their faces, but at least I can imagine yours reading that. It’s almost as good._

_God, but I wish I had written to you sooner. Even though I’m still worried about any alarm this letter could cause…just knowing I can talk to you in some fashion helps._

_You don’t have to, of course, but…feel free to write whenever you’d like._

_Sincerely, Queen Marianne._

 

There were countless scribbles and scratches before her signature, so much so that it looked like the bottom of the paper had been blotted with ink. Bog wondered vaguely if she had faced the same dilemma in ending the letter as she had when addressing it. Such contemplation was easily swept aside as he reread the letter once, then twice again, his eyes devouring the words with the same amount of hunger each time, his mouth moving with the words. “ _I can’t talk to anyone here the way I can with you…”_

He shook his head wonderingly – to think his words had stopped her from writing to him. Had he truly been  _foolish_  enough to think she wouldn’t want to hear from him as desperately as he had wanted to hear from her? A burn of anger at himself began to blossom in his chest, but Bog determinedly squashed it. Fat lot of good that would do him now, holding her letter in his claws.

Besides, now that she had taken the first step… 

He leapt off his bed and strode through his door and immediately collided with his mother. She tumbled backwards with an alarmed squawk of surprise, and Bog swiftly grabbed her, pulling her upright. Griselda patted herself down to check for any damages then gave a huff of annoyance, folding her arms crossly.  _“This_  is the thanks I get for coming to check on you! Where’s the fire, your majesty?” 

He knew she was being sarcastic, but truly, it was as if a fire had been lit in his chest, excitement crackling like flames under his scales. Nonetheless, Bog tried to look appropriately apologetic. “ _Ah_ , aye. Yes,  _um_ , sorry, Mother.  _Uh_ , would – would you know where if we kept extra ink and parchments down here? I have some supplies from last year, to go over documents, but I doubt the ink is still good –” 

“Ya could always use a burnt stick from one of the fires,” Griselda offered, looking thoroughly disconcerted. “Boggy, sweetie, are you feelin’ okay?” 

He nodded distractedly, trying to remember just  _where_  he had put that dratted flask of ink  - gods, when  _was_  the last time he had actually gotten any paperwork accomplished during their time Underground? “Aye, I’m fine. Why?” 

Griselda blinked and then smiled, her beady eyes slitting in cheerful secrecy. “No reason. Check in one of the lower vaults, honey, I think there’s some extra supplies there –”     

Bog took off, but not before he heard her chuckle. “Been so long he can’t even tell he’s doing it, bless his scaly skull…” 

Bog’s brow creased in confusion.  _Doing **what?**_

Still striding though the Tunnel, he drew a hand over his face absentmindedly, wondering what on earth his mother had been talking about. His fingers passed over the familiar sharp lines and thorny angles, the cut of his cheekbones and nose, the edge of his jaw  – 

His eyes widened as his claws caught on an unexpected curve of flesh and thorn, his hand dropping away as he realized what it was. 

He had been  _smiling?_   

Bog paused for a second, bewilderment making him still, and then looked down at his other hand, Marianne’s letter still clutched tight. 

Bog blinked and then started off again, and as he contemplated what he would say in his reply, his smile slowly but surely stretched into a grin. 

_Guess he had._

* * *

“Now that the snow is nearly melted, and some buds have come up, I would say now it could be considered safe to sleep here once more. That is, unless we get a sudden storm.” Hedgewort sniffed, looking disapprovingly at where the Castle of the Bog King loomed up from the Forest floor, grim and moldering as ever. “Or you’ve seen some sense and have found a new fortress. But if you’re  _determined_  to still keep this Castle –”

“Chiding me only works when it’s my mother doing it, Hedgewort,” Bog retorted, but his voice was mild as he looked over to his keep. “And even then its success is rare. I’ll be the first to go, make sure it’s sound for everyone to move their things back. Can you have people ready to move when the time comes, Stuff and Thang?” 

Thang looked uneasy, but Stuff merely nodded. “No worries of us failing you, Sire.” 

“You haven’t done so in the past,” Bog agreed. Thang’s mouth dropped and Stuff’s eyes widened at their King’s amiable tone, and even Hedgewort blinked in surprise as Bog continued on, glancing over his shoulder to the Border. “I shan’t doubt you now. You’ve done well this Winter, all of you. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the Fields before moving back.” 

 He strode away, the noise of his cloak trailing over melting snow and leaves, not enough to mask Thang’s frantic whisper. “Sire never compliments us! Do you think he’s ill?” 

“Don’t know,” Stuff muttered back, sounding uneasy. “Whatever it is, at least it’s mellowed him out–”

“I wouldn’t have expected such impertinence from  _you_  of all goblins, Stuff,” scolded Hedgewort, but Bog merely rolled his eyes and continued on, his stride not faltering. Like the old codger had any right to talk to her about cheek when he still thought his King some callow youth to lecture. And it wasn’t like Stuff was wrong, his moods had been dark and dire as his land till lately. 

As for the reason for his sudden change…

Bog smirked, looking at the letter bound to his scepter, before letting his hand dip beneath the folds of his cloak to where a certain sheaf of parchment, carefully folded and fragrant as ever, was safely tucked.  _Gods knew why._

* * *

_She tilts her head, blinking those lovely eyes, the sweep of her long, dark lashes doing things to his heart that he never would have thought were possible. “Your majesty?”_

_Gods, was there **anything**  to rival her beauty? Surely nothing could. Ever since he had seen her across the crowded Forest floor, over the mass of goblins that his song had turned into a thrashing frenzy of savage delight, everything had been dull, all sights rendered meaningless after her._  ** _The most beautiful creature I ever saw…_**

_Once again, that familiar old poison slithers through him, coiling around his heart and whispering into his ear. “And why would a beauty like her look at you? What were you thinking, you don’t stand a chance –”_

**_No._**   _He_   ** _does_**.  _He clutches the flask tucked behind his back, the glass cool under his claws even with the power it contains. Now he does. This…this is his chance, his best chance, his only hope of_   ** _her –_**

_Now a smile is curling at her wide mouth, those perfect lips, those gleaming teeth. “Is…everything alright?”_

_Her smile is so sweet, and her eyes are so playful, and the thought of having that by his side, such sweet beauty and playful light brightening his loneliness, frees him from the prison of his doubt._

_He laughs, the noise almost an exhale as he looks down, the Spring air cool as his neck flushes hot. “Ah, yes. Everything’s fine. I…I just…” He looks up at her and_   ** _gods_** ,  _her beauty robs him of everything. His voice is far weaker than King’s ought to be as he continues on. “…Just got distracted.”_

_And who could blame him, she’s so –_

_She smiles at his words, at the undeniable adoration in his eyes, and looks charmed by it, not at all repulsed. Bog uses that to make himself take a steadying breath. **You can do this**_.  _“I was…I was wondering if…if I could have a word with you?”_

_And to his immense delight, that smile grows, those lovely eyes sparkle with warmth. “Of course,” she replies, voice lilting and sincere, so sweet. The sweetest girl he’s ever met, so achingly kind whenever she speaks to him, her warmth a flame he couldn’t stop himself from being drawn to even if he wanted to. She continues on, gracefully shrugging one of her fronds away. “How could any loyal subject say no to her Prince?”_

_Her eyes – so large and guileless, such a soft blue-gray that those dark lashes fan over so becomingly – widen, and she gasps, stricken. “I – I mean_ ** _King!_**   _I’m so sorry, Bog, I –_   ** _oh!_**   _I mean, **your majesty -!”**  She stops herself and sighs, deep and woebegone, and looks up at him apologetically. “I’m_  ** _so_**   _sorry, I promise I didn’t mean any disrespect. I suppose I’m still getting used to your new title –”_

_“I am too,” he confesses, his smile unguarded and sincere as he takes in her adorably contrite expression, never mind how hearing his name on her lips, hearing him called her **anything,**  is making his heart flutter like a pair of moth wings.  _

_She sighs once more, her lips twisting ruefully. “Still, I promise I’ll get it one day. Anyway, you wanted to talk?”_

_Oh gods, he was going to do it. “Yes, um…in private? Perhaps by the Border, under the primroses?”_

_She smiles, and who else could wear happiness so well? “Good idea!” She arches a brow at him as she starts to walk, and he keeps to the ground out of respect to her winglessness. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”_

_He would wring his hands if he wasn’t clutching the Potion. “No, nothing wrong.” **Please**_   _let this not go wrong, please let this not_   ** _be_**   _wrong. He just has no other chance at her, at her Love–_

 _The blooms sway gently in the breeze as they walk beneath them, and her eyes are alight as she looks around. “I love this time of year,” she says happily, patting the stalk of one primrose fondly. “Spring…everything waking after sleeping all Winter. The primroses are perfect_   _right now.”_

 ** _You’re perfect right now._**   _Bog flushes and looks down. Gods, he’s **such** a lovesick fool –_

_She looks back to him, gaze curious and bright. “What was it that you wanted to talk to me about?”_

_His claws are trembling as he fumbles with the stopper, still holding it behind his wings, and she can’t see it, he towers over her so. “I…I just…I wondering –”_

_His voice cracks, and she giggles. “Oh, Bog, you don’t have to be nervous! Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not terrible.” She looks at him so fondly, and her voice is full of gentle teasing as she clasps her hands theatrically. “Nothing too terrible for a_   ** _King_**   _to handle, anyway.”_

 _He wilts, practically melting under such praise. She’s so_   ** _kind_** ,  _so **sweet**_ ,  _so_ ** _beautiful_**   _– she’s all he’s ever wanted, and if this makes **him**  into all that she could ever want –_

_The echo of the Sugar Plum’s voice is cheerful and utterly confident. “Dust the one you love, stand in front, be the first she sees when she opens her eyes! Terribly simple, your majesty!”_

_Bog gathers himself as he steps in front of her, nothing between them, and tries keep his hands from quaking. He can do this. He needs to do this. He_ ** _loves_**   _her, and…_

_And this will make certain that she loves **him**._

_His voice is thick from nerves. “Ah hope it turns out ta be th’ opposite of terrible.” His claws finally get the stopper out. “An’…an’ Ah hope tha’ soon yer as fond of me as Ah am of ye.”_

_She laughs, bright and beautiful. “Bog, you sweetheart! Of course I’m fond of you, you’re my best —”_

_The Potion spills through the air, a glittering cascade over her head, pink as the primroses they stand under —_

_She coughs, covering her face, the sparkling dust trailing over her fingers, getting into her eyes, and Bog throws the empty flask away, scales crackling as he shivers in nervous anticipation. He used the whole bottle of her, he can’t take any chances—_

_She coughs but smiles, laughing between each sputter. “Bog, **what**  was _ ** _that_ ** _—?”_

_And she’s opens those beautiful eyes…_

_Bog’s heart is thudding so hard in the most exquisite agony - she can see only him, he was the first thing she saw as she opened her eyes, everything has worked perfectly –_

_He smiles, nervous and eager, his heart in his eyes as he looks at her, waits for her response, her smile, her love –_

_And she smiles dreamily, perhaps still recovering, clasping her hands in that familiar gesture–_

_And then her eyes focus on him, and she stills._

_And something is dawning fast in her gaze, not warmth, not affection, certainly not Love –_

_She looks at Bog, so ready to be loved, and screams._

_Shrill and long and loud, holding her hands out to keep him back, fend him off, her whole face full of **horror**  as she screams and screams and screams – _

* * *

Bog bolted up, eyes wide and scales flaring as he gasped for breath, as his heart is ached in his chest, twisted by panic and flaring in the agony of reliving that Fateful Day, his world crashing down and his heart shattering,  _breaking_ –

He squeezed his eyes shut, drawing a shaky claw over his face.  _A dream. Just a dream._

A horrible, agonizing, gut-wrenchingly vivid dream. Gods, but it had been  _so_ _real_ , her screams still echoing in his ears…

He pushed his mossy blankets away, moist with perspiration and spongy with snow, and looked around his chamber, trying to calm the racing of his heart with familiar sights. After returning from the Fields having delivered his reply to a most delighted Daffodil, Bog had wasted no time in settling back into his proper chambers, the Castle all his as Winter melted away, as a slow and steady burgeoning warmth began to steal over the Forest. 

He had done the same thing in seasons past, had always made it his duty as King to be the first Goblin to return to the Castle.  _What could have possibly triggered such a…?_

A faint purr of wind teased over his damp brow, and Bog looked up sharply to the right-side alcove window, its shutters flung wide from when he had opened them to let the stale air out.  He must have fallen asleep before getting around to fastening them once more, he would normally  _never_ be so foolish to leave them so –

They creaked in the breeze, and Bog’s eyes widened as he saw the sight they opened onto, before narrowing.  _Of bloody course_.

He threw back the rest of his bedding to stalk over to the window, his wings twitching in supreme irritation as he directed a poisonous glare at the Border, blooming innocently in the moonlight, fresh and tender with new plants. The wind ruffled through them, carrying over to his Castle and his chamber, flooding both with a familiar, much reviled scent.  _Primroses_. 

Hadn’t even bloomed yet and  _still_ he was taunted by them. Small bloody wonder he had been beset by such a nightmare of a memory –

Bog growled low and hateful in his throat, eyes slitting further before he summoned up the vilest curse he could think of.  _“Spring,”_  he spat, and then slammed the shutters closed.  

Stalking back to his bed, he fell upon it in a sprawl, wearily tugging his blankets back over him. It was a relief to come back to his Castle, aye, but at least in the Underground he had never been troubled by anything but the smell of soil. But when he was back in the heart of his Kingdom, and the Border began to get even the smallest bit of bloom on it…

Bog sighed, closing his eyes. It was the same each damn season – the approaching Spring, the promise of those accursed blooms…everything conspired to send him into a state of tension, plagued by dreams –

Dreams of  _her._

But never had one been so wretchedly  _real_ , so terribly vivid - 

Bog winced, and drew his hand back over his face, his palm muffling his mouth when he spoke. “Ah  _hate_  this time of year…” 

Taking his hand away from his face, Bog sighed long and low and let his eyes wearily trace the dark shadows above him. They then fell idly upon the cloak he had let drop to the floor before sleep had claimed him, where a pale bit of parchment peeked out from under the fold of batwing. 

Marianne’s letter. 

Bog let his eyes fasten on it, how the paper glowed out of the darkness. He had started carrying it with him, a practice he was careful to conceal lest anyone found out. He didn’t precisely know  _why_  he had begun to do so. All he knew was that he simply felt  _better_  having it there, so near to him. It was a strange comfort, the feel of it pressed against the slide of his scales, the murmuring beat of his heart…

Without understanding why, he reached out a hand, plucking it up with his claws. Silently he examined it, bringing it closer to study properly. He must have read it more than a dozen times, and still it never ceased to be a marvel. She had  _written_  him,  _remembered_  him…

Never mind that she had written him countless times before. That had been in her capacity as the Queen of his neighboring Kingdom. Such correspondences were a simple matter of ruler to ruler, conversing and clarifying matters of state. This hadn’t been that,  _wasn’t_  that. This…

 _This means something more_. 

The parchment crinkled slightly under his fingers, not quite as crisp as it had been when it had arrived, but far from worn. And the scent of it was still remarkably strong, given how far it had traveled. Though her perfume  _had_ always clung to her letters, a fact that never failed to amuse him. 

Now, as Bog handled the letter, claws carefully passing over the same parchment her hand had brushed against, writing words for only his eyes to see…now, it was a comfort. 

Before he even realized he was doing so, Bog brought to letter closer still.  Closing his eyes, he breathed it in, inhaling soft and deep. The scent of it -  _of her_  – washed over him, soothing what lingering pain the nightmare had awakened in him. Strange, how something as simple as a certain fragrance could stir him to nightmares, whilst another could settle his soul… 

His eyes still heavy, his senses still awash in such a sweet echo of her, Bog found himself surrendering to slumber even as he still held Marianne’s letter tight, a talisman he would not question.  

* * *

_The primroses bloom, triumphant and tall and taunting, swaying in a breeze that will not be bound to either light or shadow._

_His fangs bared, his hands hooking, Bog brings back a claw, ready to sever, to slice,_   ** _destroy_**  – 

_Then she takes his hand._

_His snarl stills, his burning ache for retribution flickering into something smoldering but dim. She looks him in the eye, nothing in those amber depths but pain and understanding. “You don’t serve your Kingdom by killing yourself with misery.”_

_His fingers twine with hers desperately. “Nor do you.”_

_She bows her dark head, and the flutter and tremble of the petals under the moon fall makes silver and shadow dance over the purity of her skin. She’s wearing something that is at once fashioned from fragile flowers and spun from the very shadows of his land, clinging close to her curves. “So we find a way to live again, grow anew.”_

_Her eyes glow as she lifts them to him, beguiling no matter what she wears, no matter what claims her, Light or Dark. A petal falls, tumbling soft and sweet, and she plucks it from the air and presses it into his palms. When Bog looks down he smells freesia and her words scrawl across parchment._

_Her voice is a soft and strong as the lunar glow surrounding them. “A_ ** _different_**  way.” 

  _And moonlight is as pure as ever as the Border fades and moss presses against his back. He sinks further onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling, the darkness his fortress holds._

_He speaks to it, his voice a ragged confession. “Ah did nae want ta be hurt again.”_

_And she’s beside him, and her eyes have never been so golden, so guileless, so full of aching empathy. “I know all about getting your heart broken.” Her hand presses to his heart, the scarred old thing thudding under her touch. “The trick is trusting that it can be put back together. Stronger for the scars.”_

_It’s his turn to bow his head, and she places it upon her heart. The pulse of it is steady and strong, her skin so **soft**  against his scales–_

_They lay on his bed, her heart holding him there, and it melts into the Border, the scent of the primroses no longer stinging at his senses –_

_Perhaps they’re in both places, or neither. Bog does not know. Perhaps they’re in another realm entirely, one ruled by moonlight, where darkness is an embrace, a place between the shadow and the soul –_

_All Bog knows is that Marianne holds him, and he is no longer alone._

* * *

Morning stole through his chamber like it always did, slow and creeping as vines, and Bog took his time waking, burrowing into the velvety moss and stretching until he felt several satisfying  _cracks_. Gods, but he was loathe to wake, he was so soothed…

He lazily opened an eye, just a wee slit, then shot up, wide eyed and wholly awake with alarm. Cursing himself for a fool, he quickly passed his claws over the letter, clutched in his hand the whole night, concern making his heart clench.  _If it’s been damaged in anyway –_

Other than looking a touch crumpled, however, it appeared to be fine. Bog breathed a sigh of relief, gave another inward oath over his recklessness, and looked over to his window. 

Sunlight was filtering feebly through the cracks in the shutters, making Bog narrow his eyes before rolling back his shoulders wearily. A new day, a new sun.  _A new slew of problems._  Despite Hedgewort’s quarrelsome worries, Spring was fast approaching, and that meant attending to certain matters. 

Bog sighed as he left his bed, cracking his neck once more. On that note, he ought to send some goblins to the Border. If things were beginning to bloom…

It was never too early to see some primroses fall. 

* * *

_Marianne is industrious, her fingers nimble and quick, shredding delicate petal after delicate petal. “Plum is the only Sprite to know how to make the Potion, and you’ve locked her away. Why can’t you trust people not to steal the primroses?”_

_“I never trust anybody.” He settles into the moss, getting comfortable. It is his bed, after all. “Not even myself. If a King was swayed –”_

_“A King who was young and in love,” Marianne says, tearing through another golden petal with a soft, the bright yellow striking against shadow and moss. She plucks another from her dress, the skirt draping over his bed, rumpled and billowing. Pieces of buttercup flutter down in a savagely soft rain, but her eyes are accepting. “You’re not the first fool to rush in.”_

_Claws draw through the silken pile of her destruction, gentle grooves through the bold yellow. “Which is why the primroses must fall. The world is full of fools.”_

_She smiles, then hands him some of her skirt. “Help me.”_

_He readily obeys. It is satisfying, methodically destroying such a grandiose and insulting claim. That wretched necklace is locked around her throat, gaudy as ever. Bog wants to see it peeled away from her like a molt, gold flaking off until nothing remains of that fool’s attempt to collar her –_

_The hemline of her dress is getting shorter and shorter, or perhaps her legs are getting longer and longer, stretching slender and strong, fine lines and soft curves and hard muscles, skin as pale as moonlight against the sunny yellow of the gown …_

_Bog wonders if it’s as soft as the sigh she gives, her fingers curling through her hair. Small yellow flowers fall free as she shakes dark locks loose, gleaming redwood rich. Freesia, soft and familiar, curls around him, **through**  him –_

_Her legs furl under her like slender stalks, her arms bare as she hands him a petal from her bodice. “Try this.”_

_He takes the petal, and it’s heavy, weighted in his palm. Bright gold, cold metal. He crushes it in his fist, strong and tight, and unfurls his hand._

_A dark cord lays across his palm, a metal stronger than the weakness of gold._   ** _Iron._**   _Both fairies and goblins avoid it if they can. Even the Fae even feared it. Teardrops of amber drip along it, golden and glowing and precious…_

_Marianne claws at her throat, shredding the necklace easily, and the slender line of her neck has never seemed so **pale** , so  **naked** , now freed of its prison. _

_And how easy it is to drape his necklace around her neck, iron and amber, Darkness and Light, it belongs on her,_   ** _to_**   _her…_

_Her eyes gleam with the same fire and luster. “She took Him, Dark and Powerful, to be her King, for He Met and Challenged and gave Her Rule Balance.”_

_He can’t stop from stroking the slender line of her throat, claws gently tracing over the butterfly flutter of her pulse. Marianne **purrs** , tipping back her head, eyes sinking closed, her neck exposed, skin pale and lush and_  ** _waiting_**  –

* * *

He was  _warm_  when he woke, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the thaw coming through the Forest. Bog yawned into his stretch, scrubbing a hand over his face and scratching at his thorny stubble. Gods, but he hadn’t felt so… _deliciously_  rested since he was a youth. It was rare when he could recall the details of a dream, but he wished he could remember this one.  _Must have been good._

A soft sort of heat rolled underneath his scales, a slow and steady kindling that verged on a smolder, and Bog arched a brow still heavy with slumber. Hadn’t felt  _that_  since he had been a youth, either. 

Hells, but that had been a wretched experience, entering Spring and having his body turn traitor, scales sensitive and blood hot as everything in the Forest grew  _potent,_ snow melting under the burgeoning warmth of the new season. Never mind the humiliation and loneliness of being a ganglingly awkward adolescent, taller than any other Goblin youth, all spikes and thorny scales. Oh no, he  _had_  to be the Prince of the Dark Forest with every movement scrutinized, every mood judged, so  _different_ from any other creature here. Fine time for his body to fall prey to the most basest urges and compellings, to have every sensation feel so  _new_ , sending shivers over his scales. Gods, like when he had innocently tried to scratch an inconvenient itch his back, rubbing against a tree trunk only to turn into a shuddering, quaking mess of horrified realization and shameful ecstasy –

_Spring._

_It had been in Spring when he had – only then when he had felt so –_

Bog leapt from his bed, flying to the window. He threw open the shutters and leaned out, his breath coming hard, his heart racing. 

It was undeniable. The Forest was as soft as it ever could be, a thrum of life furling up from the black, rich soil, new roots reaching deep. Sunlight filtered through branches that were still bare, but now they were dotted with new leaves, unfurling tender and shy. Buds and pods hung heavy with promise of new life after the deep sleep the snow had forced upon them, and –

Bog scanned the floor of his domain and slowly nodded, blue eyes slitting in satisfaction. The last of the snow had finally melted.

A new warmth was kindling in his chest, spreading soft and slow like the blooms below him, and for the first time in fourteen years, Bog found himself smiling at the return of Spring to his land. 

_If Spring’s returned…soon she will as well._

Bog looked up, his eyes gazing into to the pale blue promise of the sky, already searching it for the flutter of familiar wings, and the gentle burn of hope and anticipation trailed heat through his body. The cold slumbering death of Winter was over. 

Bog drew in a slow, steadying inhale, tasting the freshness of the air. Spring had come, and Marianne would too. 

_Live again, grow anew._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got to admit, I’m chuckling over the fact that I’m releasing this chapter all about Winter and Coldness and Snow on the first snow day I’ve had this Winter. BUT THANK HEAVENS, WE’RE FINALLY DID IT!
> 
> Once again, I am sorry for the long wait between the last chapter and this one but God in Heaven, this was a beast to write! I’m hoping that after wrangling this one the other chapters will be tamer, but I’ve learned not to make any promises.
> 
> Also! Here's how I envisioned the cloak that Bog wears in this chapter, if any of you are curious: http://suzie-guru.tumblr.com/post/141029464628/a-very-rough-drawing-of-what-i-visualized-bogs


	11. Chapter Ten

_ **Chapter Ten** _

 

The sky curving above the Border was a blue so soft and sweet the desire to reach out for it was not a mere, fleeting fancy but a _need_. 

The thought of fingers curling up through the air with cautious craving was one every heart harbored, the soft, sifting warmth of the soil churning up beneath feet banishing the memories of frost flashes and sudden snows. All the while, the sky stayed true and blue, only a few curls of clouds crossing it as the sun stayed steady in its warmth. The bud of Spring was starting to blossom, and the fingers that curled to the sky were brushed by a wind that had no bite of Winter but a teasing and tender warmth, twining around them, purring and perfumed. The scent was one of damp, dark soil freed from the iron freeze of Winter, grass growing victoriously verdant after suffocating under snow, and the sweet scent of blooms opening onto a new world, their perfume as delicate as the very petals they unfolded. With a patience and readiness each had carried since a seed, flowers turned their faces to the sun, welcoming the returning warmth of the sunlight as it spread over them.

And as always, none welcomed the dearly missed sun more so than the primroses.

They bloomed tall and proud and beautiful as ever, light and shadow playing over tender, newly opened petals delicately fanning out and fluttering in the warm wind. The sunlight fell upon the blooms with a gentle generosity, a radiance reserved for their best beloved. One little primrose seemed to nod its head in gratitude, the silken blush of its pink petals bobbing gently before tipping up once more to the bright beams and the soft sweet blue stretching high above it.

The heavy blade sliced through the stem with a satisfying _thwack_ , and the silken petals fluttered once more as the flower fell to the earth like a star, splaying upon the dirt, softness spread over the soil with innocent beauty.

Bog took a particularly vicious satisfaction in spearing it with his scepter, ripping and rending the pliant lushness of the petals – and all magic they contained–beyond repair. Once done, he looked down upon it with triumphant contempt, his sneer of victory close to a snarl. _Ensorcell the soil with your miserable magic, ye damn thing._  

Done with the act – which felt cathartically close to retribution – he shook the mangled mess free from his scepter with a contemptuous growl and seized a handful of plush moss, wrenching it free with such violence that clods of earth tumbled between of his clenched claws. With rough strokes, he wiped any sticky residue that lingered, scowling all the while. Like _hells_ he was going to have the symbol of his rule carry the scent of the damned things. Probably could rub it down with some mud as well…

Although what with how said mud had only come to be from the earth thawing, it would _still_ make his mind move back to Spring…

Bog sighed and let the moss fall to the floor of the Forest, looking around him with fatigued vexation. Like he had to _think_ of any damn thing to be troubled. Hells, he was bloody _surrounded_ by every single sight of the season—

There was a sudden cry above him. _“Sire, watch out!”_

Bog looked up just in time to get a face full of primroses, a multitude of toppled stalks showering down from above, the petals pattering upon him like pink, perfumed rain.

With a snarl of incandescent irritation, Bog tore them off him with such savagery he felt the swipe and scrape of his own claws across his scales. This time he didn’t bother with his scepter, grinding the blasted things beneath his heel, mangling any magic before kicking them away so hard several pebbles and a spray of soil accompanied them. He then turned his face to the top of the Border, the blue of his eyes venomously bright as they slit in a glare.

The goblins perched atop of the primroses watched him with wide eyes and frozen features, their breath bated by the prospect of the brutal bout of ferocious fury that their King was no doubt only moments away. A few traitorous glances revealed the doomed perpetrator, and Bog turned his glower upon them.

Thang swallowed at the sight of his King, before licking his lips. When he spoke, his lisp even more pathetic than usual _. “…Sorry?”_

Bog could _feel_ the roar of rage forming in his throat, a hard and bitter and ugly thing, the beginnings of his growl scraping up his gullet like a hard and harsh stone. Beneath his cloak, his wings began their tell-tale twitch of temper, gnarled knuckles taut as he gripped his scepter, his claws scrapping along it, several new nicks resulting. Staring up from beneath a murderously furrowed brow, Bog gave Thang the full force of his glare as he bared his fangs, ready to unleash all the hells he could summon—

—and then suddenly the fire of his fury was snuffed out in a strange swirl of smoke, and with a sudden and aching intensity, Bog felt enormously empty. _What does it bloody matter?_

He sighed, his wings falling limply down his back, and passed a scarred palm over his face and the scales of his scalp. When he spoke, his mutter was low and rough and tired. “Bloody be more careful, Thang.”

He turned his back on their stunned faces and strode off down the Border, trying to ignore both the whispers he had left in his wake and how the Forest was beginning to thrum with energy, the glow of growth and greenery gradually coming back overhead and underfoot. Instead, he focused upon the _crunch_ of his feet over leaves long dead and the slide of his cloak over grass now gray. But even the garment was a reminder, simply bat wings now, no need for insulating moss what with the warmth slowly but certainly coming back to the air. And though leaves long dead and gray grass was on the ground, tender new growth far outnumbered them, buds hanging heavy on branches in soft clusters.

There was no use denying it – soft and slow as it was, the season was a seed now flourishing fast. Spring had come back.

_But she hasn’t…_

Bog scowled and swatted down another primrose bobbing boldly in the breeze, the twist of his heart robbing him of any satisfaction in watching it fall. To steal a phrase from his mother, that was the bloody bitter seed in the midst of all the flowering fruit, wasn’t it?

He had _never_ welcomed Spring. Well, perhaps when he was younger, before the bloody Potion had come into his life. But Bog was a creature of hardness and habit, favoring control and certainty in a world of chaos. And foolishly – _so_ foolishly –  he had let himself slip away from the comfortable contempt of this season, all because it had carried the promise of seeing _her_ again…

And now it was bloody Spring and everything was turning bloody green and bloody blooming, especially those bloody, blasted primroses, _and she still wasn’t bloody here_ , and he was about bloody ready to bloody _molt_ —

_“Impetuous.”_

The hiss of the word, a dagger drawn from the sheaf of memory, pierced him clean through, the echo of that infernal creature’s voice stopping him with a sudden and sickening halt, before Bog groaned in self-disgust. _Bloody proving her right, aren’t you?_

Hells, but he _was_ pathetic. A few days – or weeks, not that he was so callow as to be counting – denied of the return of the fairies from their Migration, and he was back to the surly, stroppy youth of yore, green to governing and impatient to the point of irritation. _You’re starting your bloody sixteenth year of ruling, git. Try and bloody act like it._

Never mind that in all those years he had never had to be separated from someone like Marianne. God, even after falling in love, he hadn’t had the pain of being parted from Fen—

Bog bit his lower lip till the rust of blood welled up under his fangs and passed his tongue over the wound. Logically, he knew he was being a fool. _Logically,_ Bog knew that such a journey would take time, the path back home just as consuming and demanding the same caution and care.

But hearts and logic never kept company, and his was apparently fixed to sulk over any and all delays. Bog scowled, feeling the burn of shame. _Fine thing for a King to do._

Especially when there was the all-too-likely fact that unlike her first journey, Marianne had to keep the company of the golden dolt for this one. Any pains he suffered paled in comparison to that, and Bog found himself not only gripped by impatience but by wretched worry for her. _Let her be alright…_

Had those been the sole factors in his frustration, Bog would have content to claim them, beat them back, and leave it at that. But—

_Concern a King can claim, and impatience was always in your blood. But there’s another beastie in your breast that clawing at you, fool—_

Bog twitched his head, cracked his neck so that the noise of it echoed off the trees, and began to walk once more, his scepter swinging by his side, his strides long. Yet try as he might, he couldn’t walk away from that poisonous voice of old, tunneling into his thoughts like rot through a tree.

_Fear is something no Goblin should carry, least of all the King of them. And for all your pining and whining—_

Bog bared his teeth, a snarl tucked behind them, but the voice kept on.

_—you’re **afraid** to see her_ _once again._

This time Bog _did_ snarl, the sound of it so harsh it was a wonder the tender new leaves around him didn’t shred under the sound of it. Him, _afraid?_ Load of rot. Fear was another instrument of chaos, and he had bloody well beat _that_ back, hadn’t he?

Bog scoffed, his certainty making it stronger. Besides, even though it _was_ bloody impossible and _wasn’t_ the case, it wasn’t because he had a strange sort of… _fear_ over seeing Marianne again.

Because he _didn’t._

At _all._

Bog scowled and gave his scepter another savage swipe, another stalk sent toppling and another primrose felled. He paid it no mind even as he ground it beneath his thorny heel. Gods be good, he was the thrice damned King of the Dark Forest, he could bloody well do what was _expected_ of his position, that of reaffirming the connection and communication that existed between his Kingdom and the Fairy Kingdom included.

Bog stopped his stalking to mutter a curse and scrub a harsh hand over features that felt harsher still. It seemed so bloody _simple_ when put like that: ruler meeting with ruler to reaffirm diplomatic goals and gains, the King of the Dark Forest meeting once again with the Queen of the Fairy Kingdom. Hells, it wasn’t like it _wasn’t_ the bloody truth.

But…

Bog sighed, low and long, before planting his scepter into the ground. No one else in sight, he turned away from the Border to let himself lean against a tree, his claws scrapping over the knotted bark mindlessly. The few clouds in the sky curled around the sun, causing it to disappear and coldness to creep back a bit as Bog let his eyes stare out beyond the Border, the blue of them unseeing, the depth of them deep with thought.  

It was… _part_ of the truth. A seed split in two but giving the same bloom all the same. He _was_ a King and she _was_ a Queen, both throwing their lots in with the other, and he had no true dread contemplating the likelihood of continuing such a path once they had reunited.

_Reunited…_

Bog closed his eyes and passed a hand over the scales of his scalp, the gesture no longer harsh, but weary.

He _was_ King, aye. But…

It was not it was not the thought of a Queen whose return sent his heart racing.

It was _Marianne._

The fact was even after everything, after all he had devoted to the diplomacy, all he could give a damn about was having _her_ back.

And gods, how that made him burn with shame. His guts twisted at the dismay and disgust he could so _easily_ see on her face if she found out he felt so, what with how dear the diplomacy was to her…

Bog gave another curse, this one far more heart-sore. If they had kept it to only being King and Queen, to only being connected by diplomatic communication, perhaps he wouldn’t be acting so—

Awash with such—

Bog’s sigh was a shredded thing as it passed through his fangs, any curse befitting his state beyond his ken, and he sagged against the tree trunk, the bat wings of his cape barely protecting his back from the bite of the bark. _Gods._

What was the worst, what was _the absolute bloody worst_ , was that his damned heart, that was _supposed_ to be too sore and scarred for _fluttering,_ couldn’t seem to decide if it was avaricious in anticipation or aching with anxiety. Bog would have clawed it out from beneath his carapace if he hadn’t needed the stupid thing, so riddled by nerves was it.

But…gods help him, how could he _not_ be? When there were so many things that could go wrong…

He had spent so much time thinking of her, dreaming of seeing her, his thoughts had become nothing so much more than a cyclone of concern, the whirl of them sharpened with cynicism, cutting his soul to the quick.

_What if it isn’t everything you want? Do you even **know** what you bloody want, you fool? You could come off as too eager to see her—_

_But then if you come off as too cold—_

Bog pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing. Then there was Marianne to think about, good gods—

_What will her reaction be? What if she has **no** reaction? The letter showed she missed m—our talks, but what if she misses the memory of them more? _

_…Gods, what if I disappoint her?_

Bog closed his eyes as pain lanced through him at that. It was ridiculous, not to mention the worst kind of traitorous to even harbor such thoughts. But the thought that _truly_ shamed him, made him yearn to rip his heart out over the sheer offense of what it betrayed was that…

Bog sighed as he dropped his head, the aching weight of shame making his heart so very heavy.

…was that the possibility of everything going _right_ only served to make him far more terrified than the thought of everything going wrong.

He…he was not one for whom things turned out right. Dearly held dreams did not come to be for him.

_They never do for hideous beasts. Why would **you** be the exception, ye old fool—?_

Bog closed his eyes against the voice, but could not keep back his sigh _. Old._ Gods, but he felt it now. He couldn’t remember a Winter weighing on him more, making him feel every ache in his bones. And now with the passing of his thirty-fourth Spring so soon to come, he could only wearily resign himself to more.

_He had felt so young with her…_

And now such a feeling felt impossibly beyond his reach now, as far away as she was right now…

Even with the sky so blue, the wind so warm, Bog grew cold. Hells…even with the warmth of this wretched season keeping the cold at bay, who was to say that Winter could not come again? He had awoken many mornings to snow falling on the day of his birth, a shock to the tender shoots and roots. He had taken bitter satisfaction at Spring being staved off so savagely, but now…

_Another fall of frost, another casting of coldness…it all just keeps her away._

Bog sighed once more, the sound of it gusty and deep as it rolled from him, like the wind that had so howled over the Fields this Winter, bitter-strong in its song as it cut to the very bone.

Then…

Ever so faintly from the Fields came a sound, one that was lilting, lifting with the light of the sun, the soft strumming of strings almost like sunlight in that it was felt before it was heard.

Bog lifted his head, bewildered. _Music…?_

With a wariness he knew to be ridiculous, Bog cautiously stepped away from his tree to come closer to the Border, the tangle of vines thickened with ones long dead and new growth. With the dexterity of his youthful adventures he hadn’t quite managed to lose, Bog climbed the thicket, relishing the burn such activity put in his chest, the roughness of the vines beneath his hands, thankful he hadn’t simply flown.

When he finally made it to the top, the Fields stretched before him, no longer barren of life but still nowhere near the state of bloom that came with the height of Spring and stretched into the sultry days of Summer. The green growth carpeting the land was tender and soft, some parts still hidden by stubborn snow. The looming gray shape of the Fairy Palace was no longer stark against a stretch of snow, patches of velvety green lichen spattering it as if some of the Forest had come over with all the diplomacy work…

Still, the sight of it sent a stinging sort of longing through him, and Bog averted his eyes, allowing them to wander, searching for the source of the song.  They came to rest upon the Elf Village, and his heart gave a queer ache at the song drifting up from the huts and houses, the melody softly building in its strength, carrying all the closer to him.

_“Here comes the sun_  
_doo do doo do…_  
_Here comes the sun…  
_ _And I say it’s all right…”_

The tune was simple and sweet, the voices carried the slow certainty of a blossoming bulb. Though Bog could not see from such a distance, he could easily imagine the look of happiness upon each face of those who had been so beset by snows and sleet, their faces beaming as surely as the source of light they sang for.

And strangely enough, the sun _did_ seem to be getting stronger, clouds fleeing from it, no longer able to keep back its the warmth…

_“Little darling, it’s been a long, cold lonely winter…  
_ _Little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here…”_

Bog found himself leaning against one of the trees of the Border quite without realizing it. He would have wondered at falling into such a state of entrancement, but those lyrics…

The longest, loneliest Winter in his memory, but now…

“ _Here comes the sun  
_ _doo do doo do…  
_ _Here comes the sun…  
_ _And I say it’s all right…”_

Goblins had no such songs. Frankly, no goblins had ever _welcomed_ the return of the sun. The return of warmth, yes. The return of freedom from freezing frost and stupor from snows, undoubtedly. But to welcome the light that pierced the foliage and fortress of their Forest? Darkness was _theirs_ , and while sunlight did not blister or burn them as legends of the Light Fields said, it was not something they sought, let alone _sing_ about. Sunlight was not a cause for disdain or distaste, but it was one for distrust.

Likewise, Bog could confess that he held no reason to begrudge sunlight, excepting for the fact that it revealed him in all his hideousness, hard features made harsher still under its strong rays. Darkness was kinder to him, always had been, but the sun was not his enemy – it only aided its blossoming.  

But now…

_“Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces…_  
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been here…  
_Here comes the sun_  
_doo do doo do…_  
_Here comes the sun…  
_ _And I say it’s all right…”_

Now…Bog was tempted to see it as a herald. Or, at the very least, the song it inspired was. One that served as a reminder, a beam of warmth that fell across the darkness of his mood, the coldness of his loneliness, bringing him out of both:

Cold as it had been, long as it had stretched…Winter would retreat. _Had_ retreated.

And aye, the primroses rose tall and triumphant, yet so did the sun, beaming and bright and beckoning other blooms into blossom, other growth into gloriousness, covering them away.

And the higher it rose, the sooner she would be back.

_“Sun, sun, sun, here it comes…”_

While impatience was a weed in the soil of his soul, and anxiety and nerves would cause his claws to curl across any and all surfaces…no matter how long a day stretched, each one would end.

And with each falling of the night and rising of the sun…slowly but surely, his wait would lessen.

And her welcoming would come closer…

_“Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting_ _  
Little darling, it seems like years since it’s been clear…”_

Bog felt an odd sort of tugging at his mouth, a strange sort of squeezing in his heart, and gave an exhale that felt curiously close to a laugh. Gods, but what wonders a single song could wrought. To be fair, he _had_ been a long time without such music. Almost as long as he had been without such light…

“ _Here comes the sun  
_ _doo do doo do…  
_ _Here comes the sun…  
_ _It’s all right…”_

The song faded to a soft and sweet close, and for the first time in gods knew when, Bog looked to the sun with welcome. After so long away, it had returned, bringing warmth and wonder in its wake, slowly burgeoning seeds and song.

And soon… _she_ would be back as well.

Bog smiled, the sun falling on his face, and closed his eyes as he imagined how it would fall across wings, iridescently purple and indescribably welcome.

_“It’s all right…”_

* * *

The sun continued to shine, the greenery grow lush, the sky beam bright and blue, and Bog wreaked the primroses, all the while keeping his eyes on how other stalks in the Forest and the Fields grew stronger, stretching up to the skies with each passing day.

Any time he could claim as his own he spent it along the Border, eyes watchful and ears open for any more songs. After that first day with the primroses, he had had the idea of sending a group of goblins to the Elf Village to see if any further assistance was needed. Purely pragmatic, really – not only did it establish that his people wouldn’t cease in their attentions to those the fairies had left behind even with Spring returned, but it also might provide him with news on _when_ to expect Ma–the Migration party to return.

If the reports were to be believed, the Village’s inhabitants had been truly touched by such dedication, obviously unused to a concern that continued even when a duty was done. Unfortunately, they had no news to give aside from assuring his company that the return of the fairies was not be off at all. _“As soon as the flowers fully flourish, that’s when fairies fly back to the Fields, sire!”_

Bog was dearly tempted to send a swat his lackey’s way when told such flowery tripe instead of an _actual sodding day_ , but seeing as Thang was merely reporting, the blame didn’t truly lay at his webbed feet. _But of bloody course **this** is the time he **doesn’t** bungle a message—_

Still, a message was a message. Bog managed to temper his first instinct into a glower that had sent the smaller Goblin stumbling backwards in his hasty retreat, before concentrating on just _what_ such words meant. _When the flowers fully flourish_ …

Gods, it was as good as a riddle, and he _hated_ riddles. His care towards the primroses that day had been _particularly_ rewarding.  

Now Bog fell back into his throne, closing his eyes and drawing his claws across the arms of it, the drag of them falling into the telltale grooves he had put there before. _Day after day after day…_

It was a new day, yes, and a new day meant a new nightfall and one day closer, but his temper was like an old root now – tough but twisting with each turn of time, bearing the burden of each passing slowly but surely. Gods, how much longer could he _truly_ take—?

The throne room was full of his subjects, all of them bringing him reports from across the Kingdom, each one talking over the other in a tangle of tales, a meaningless mess of noise that Bog had no desire to sort out. _No desire, aye, but damn well a duty._

With that in mind, Bog drew himself up, head already aching. His office didn’t carry a crown like that of the Fairy Kingdom, but heavy was the head indeed. _Right._

His voice cut through the throng of voices like a blade through a tangle of roots, the slam of his scepter on the floor punctuating it. **_“Enough.”_**

The goblins immediately fell to silence, and Bog made his glower a mighty thing, sweeping it over the throng of their faces. ** _“_** If ye want waste mah time with arguments, Ah’ll show ye an argument of mah own.” His claws scratched meaningfully along the length of his scepter, and he noted their collective gulp with a grim satisfaction before planting it back by his side with a heavy _thunk_. “If some o’ ye are inclined to make some sodding reports, step forward.” He marked each of his words with a thud of his scepter, eyes narrowed. “ _An’. Do. So. One. At. A. Bloody.  Time._ ” He leaned back. “Boil, yer first.”

There was a grumble across the crowd, a few goblins groaning audibly as Boil stepped forward with an officious air, small eyes squinting in pleasure at holding power and positon, no matter how small. Bog tried not to sigh. Gods, but how he wished this windbag’s uncle didn’t hold such sway with the Elders.

Boil rolled back fat shoulders with complacent importance. _“Ahem._ My dark and dreaded Sire, I bring news—

_“—FROM THE BORDER!”_

Brutus thundered into the room, his weighty gallop sending down dust from the ceiling what with how the walls quaked, the throng of goblins likewise sent to the floor from the tremors. While Brutus tried to come to a halt, he only achieved it in form of running headlong into Boil, who flew across the room before a tree root caught him in the gut, the blow knocking him bug-eyed and windless.

Bog quickly covered his mouth with his claws, desperately trying to smother a snicker. _Hells, that’s one way to deal with a windbag_ —

Hoping that his voice came off as rough with irritation instead of restrained laughter, he issued the necessary commands. “Moldia and Fleasley, take him to a healer. Bit of a lie down for ye, Boil.”

Boil groaned in response as he was led away, and Bog turned his attention to Brutus, his tone dropping into a scold. “Brutus, how many times have I had to tell ye _not_ to run in the Castle?”

Brutus licked his lips and looked properly abashed. “Lost count, Sire.”

Bog sighed as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose, noting how the walls of the throne room now had several new cracks in them. Hells, now Hedgwort would be badgering him again. “Ah’d think it’d be enough to bloody _stick_.”

Brutus nodded, his great head bobbing up and down. “Stick this time, promise. But news! News from the Border! Flowers flourish fully!”

The crowd muttered and murmured in confusion, but Bog stilled. _“…What?”_

“Told to tell you! Flowers flourish fully, petals spread under sun! Elves gathering for ceremony!”

“Ceremony?” Muggon questioned, his eyes narrowed in confusion as he exchanged baffled looks with Stuff, even as Bog sat frozen on his throne, eyes wide and fixed on Brutus, his heart—

“For fairies!” The large Goblin looked around the room before shaking his great head, clearly disgusted at such slow understanding. “Flowers flourish—”

“Cheese and rye!” Thang finished wonderingly, understanding dawning in his eyes.

Stuff swatted at his head. “It’s _fairies fly,_ mud-for-brains.”

Bog stood suddenly, his heart hammering and his voice a rasp. _“They’ve come back.”_  

“Fairies approaching!” Brutus nodded, cheeks plump with his pleased grin. “Ceremony to happen! Elves told to tell you—!”

He was cut off by the babble of the crowd, the Throne Room becoming a cavern of chaos, voices tangling once more into a tempest of noise.

For once in his rule, Bog paid such chaos no mind. It was understandable, given how his whole head and heart had flooded with need, the force of it sending his heart into a beat that was making it very hard to inhale.

_Now, she’s coming **now** , if you go now you can finally finally finally see her—_

Lost in the thrill of such thoughts, Bog was only dimly aware that his scales had begun to flair, his wings thrum, limbs tensing for takeoff—

_“Impetuous.”_

The clarity of that achingly familiar and always dratted voice cleaved through his heedless excitement like a sword through mist, and Bog reluctantly forced himself to settle. It wouldn’t do to fly off without a company. Besides, Brutus was still speaking, his gravely tones at odds with the childlike beam he sported.

“—said that Forest folk can come, but not all. Just few. Just how Bog King usually does it.” Brutus looked at Bog pleadingly. “Know too big for dragonflies, but can come to party, right? Since I brought message, yes?”

“A _party_ , huh?” Moldia, back from tending to Boil, leaned at the doorway and scratched at her fronds, looking both intrigued and wary. “I wonder if they expect us to bring something. Fairies like that kind of stuff, baubles and glittery things—”

Fletcher snickered. “They _would_ be a fan of anything that showed them their reflection.”

Farrow snorted. “Nah, that’s just that King of theirs.”

A ripple of amusement ran through the crowd, but Muggon shook his head, annoyed. “Surely there’s not enough time for that, we only just got the news that they’re coming back—”

Vexspur groaned, her trunk wilting with the exhale. “If we had spent even the smallest bit of time gathering our reports into a more organized state instead of leaving it off, we could’ve presented them—”

“The primroses had to be taken care of!”   
  


“So what, we should slack off on presenting a good image to the Fairy Kingdom?”

“Careful, Nettles, you might get mistaken for a Fairy if you’re _that_ image obsessed—”

“Watch your mouth!”

“Watch _your_ ego!” 

“Stop using _Fairy_ for an insult, we’re supposed to be beyond that—!”

Bog took to the air in a thrum of wings before landing on his thrown forcefully, causing the structure to rock back and forth with a bang, the bone clacking with each movement, slamming his scepter into the arm of it to steady himself.

The goblins immediately silenced themselves, looking up to their ruler with eyes wide with both wariness and wonder over the impressively fierce figure he cut, standing so upon his throne.

“Who,” Bog announced in an effectively low growl, “does _nae_ want their head on a stick?”

Thang was the only one to raise his hand with cheerful obliviousness. The rest of the goblins side-eyed each other nervously before raising their own hands in a cautiously rippling wave.

Bog cut his scepter to Muggon, who immediately snapped to attention. “Muggon, get the dragonflies harnessed and saddled, then take a count of how many wish to go, ye can only take so many. Brutus, ye leave to meet us there, let them know we’re comin’—”

Brutus beamed before rushing from the room in a rumbling run, and there was an immediate turmoil of voices, fierce denials of wanting to go and frantic desires to, all rising to the roof in a clamoring clash.

Bog banged his scepter down, his voice a bark. _“Silence, or Ah’ll scupper yer skulls.”_ The harshness of his glare was as fierce as it was false, so very false when he felt so – when his heart was so—

_She’s come back—_

Fighting for control over the burn in his breast, the ache of anticipation in every bit of his body, Bog snapped his fingers, claws clicking. “Stuff an’ Thang, ye’ll come with me.” _If ye dawdle, Ah’ll kill ye_ was kept behind his teeth, but just barely. Each second that passed demanded another poisonous pinch of patience that he simply did not have, not when he knew _she_ would be there and _soon_ , so very soon, so would _he_ —

_Only if ye make it on time, ye dolt._

Bog forcefully brought himself back and took to the air, the thrum of his wings nothing to the excited beat his heart. “Moldia, to my mother. Let her know Ah could nae wait.”

Never mind that there would be all kind of hells to pay when his mother got ahold of him for leaving her, especially when a party was involved—

_Then best be off **now** , hmm?_

Bog dove over his company and seized Stuff and Thang by the scruff of their necks, Stuff giving an indignant howl and Thang plaintively wailing that he hadn’t _done_ anything. The crowd beneath commenced once more in their clamoring, called for more instructions.

Bog merely shot over them, grinning with fierce anticipation and something suspiciously akin to joy. _“WHO WANTS TO GO TO A PARTY?”_  

* * *

The day blazed forth beauty, the slowness of Spring’s bloom finally rewarded through a bounty of blossoms that spread over the land in riots of color, the green grass of the Fields lush and long, swaying in rippling waves in the warm wind. The sun and sky were so bright Bog would have cursed them any other time, but now he only spared a thought for the warmth of the wind on his wings as he sped over the Fields, Stuff and Thang keeping close behind on their dragonflies. It felt just like the trips he had made before, although the past rush of anticipation was nothing compared to what he was seized with now, his scales threatening to flare from the sheer excitement, almost distracting him from his flight. Gods, but he had to get a _grip_ on himself—

If he could see him now, soaring over the Light Fields with such frank fervor, his father would have most likely been aghast, or the very least stupefied if he was inclined to be kinder. Bog nearly snorted at the image of his so easily imagined expression, the grave growl of his voice. _“Yer one song short from bein’ a bludy Fairy, boy.”_

Any other time, the memory of those words would have stung, but now Bog could only laugh, the brief exhale of it still sweet _. Only fer today, Da._

Though gods knew how long he would stay in such a state, now that _she_ had come back to him—

Bog rolled his eyes impatiently, dodging a particularly tall poppy. Hells, not to _him_. She had come back, aye, but to her Kingdom, that was all. He wasn’t about to be so trite as to think himself special—

Bog’s frantic fervor dimmed a bit at that. Gods, let her be pleased to see him—

_Let her be as happy as I am—_

Bog grimaced, biting back a worried glower, gripping his scepter determinedly as he flew past another poppy, his speed causing it to snap back after he passed. There was a faint _thwack_ , and Thang cried out, but Bog easily ignored him. It would be enough to see her, he told himself sternly. Just to know she was there, that she was back, that was enough.

_Aye, but it wouldn’t hurt if there was a bit more than just **that** —_

Bog bit the inside of his cheek, the salty gush of iron and sting of pain a sharp reminder. Dearly held dreams did not come to be for him. He wasn’t about to forget that. He wasn’t about to be a bloody _boy_ and build his hopes up only to be disappointed if they didn’t come to be. Hells, but that wasn’t any kind of fair to Marianne.

Yes, the Winter had been a long one and the wait, _gods,_ the sheer bloody _wait_ had been utterly intolerable, but he wasn’t about to place that at her feet, what with everything else she had to manage—

“Sire!”

Stuff’s cry brought Bog back to his flight, and he quickly looked around to see where they were. His heart gave a jolt when he saw the buildings of the Elf Village loom before him, a thick crowd already amassing below, a song rising up to them, wordless but strong. He had heard of this tradition, the songs that the Fields sang only at such pivotal moments, the original words lost to time but still weighty with meaning for ceremonies like this, a crowning or a—

_A coming back…_

Bog dove, barely paying any mind to the sounds of Stuff and Thang struggling to get their steeds to follow with the same speed. It looked like they were congregating around a stage, one of the many he had been told they used for their Spring and Summer gatherings and performances, the hubbub of the crowd loud and cheerful, frank excitement on the face of each of the elves, brownies and pixies he could see. Even with how the gradual gratitude over the Winter for their aid, Bog could only hope the presence of his people wouldn’t take away from the spectacle they were so obviously anticipating…

He needn’t have worried. Now nearing, Bog saw that Brutus was in the midst of them, and noted with amused amazement that several Elf and Brownie youths had taken to climbing him like some sort of living boulder, happily dangling from his arms and neck, perched upon his mighty shoulders and thick skull. For his part, Brutus seemed utterly content, beaming benevolently as the children chattered and giggled and played, happily sitting in the square as the parents in the crowd milled around him. Bog shook his head in wonder. To see those that had once whispered rancid rumors flavored with fear about his people now allowing their babes to sport with them, watching a Goblin keep their company with fond indulgence…!

_Marianne will be so pleased._

Biting back a smile, Bog swooped around a tall wheel that rose into the air and flew over the crowd, his eyes searching back and forth. Would that he knew one of the elves more than just in passing, one of them could be comfortable telling him where she would be, if she was already there—

Cries of surprise filled the air at the sight of him, and though some spoke of sudden shock, it was swiftly followed by calls of welcome, warm and sincere. Bog spared himself a moment to wonder over such a profound change the Winter had wrought before he heard it. _“Your majesty!_ I mean, ah, _Bog King_ , sir!”

Bog spun around, his eyes narrowing and then widening at the sight of the small Elf who had spoken, his shock of hair black hair and red head gear fashioned from the wings of a ladybug immediately familiar to him. _The brother-in-law._

Bog touched down on the stage at once, striding to where the Elf was. _“Ye’re back. Where are the—?”_

“Yeah, she told me you might be impatient,” the Elf – gods, what the _hells_ was his name? – chuckled. The sound was a touch nervous as he took in the dark, scaly beast of a King before him, but his smile was sincere as he continued. “I’m the first of the party to get here, I’m always sent on ahead a few days earlier to check out the Village, make a list of the damages done.” There was profound gratitude in his brown eyes as he looked up at Bog, earnest. “And there’s _none._ I can’t thank you enough, sir! The Village always falls into disrepair, and now it looks even _better_ than before, it’s _incredible_ —”

Bog waved away the thanks impatiently, his wings rattling with his fierce feelings. “If yer here, they can’t be far behind. _Where are they?”_

The Elf made to reply before another voice rang out from the crowd. “Sunny! Pip says he sees them just starting to cross the eastern tree line!”

The Elf – _Sunny,_ right, _that_ was it – immediately brightened and turned to the throng of his people, who hadn’t paused in their song. “Right, folks! We can head on over now!” He looked back to Bog with eager excitement, ready to share the happiness. “You can follow us, we know the best way to get there.”

Bog was torn between gritting his teeth and keeping his wings from buzzing from eager elation. _“Where?”_

“To the main royal garden! That’s where they always have the reception area. The pixies ought to have finished setting up by now, that’s what they do, it’s the brownies job to get the Palace all ready—”

The crowd had already begun to move, still singing their song. What with that and how Bog’s wings thrummed as he took to the air again he had to raise his voice to make sure he was heard. “Stuff, Thang, you follow me and then double back to guide the rest of the party behind us.” He looked to Sunny, nodding his head to Brutus. “Can some of yours wait with him to guide any stragglers?”

The young Elf nodded and then quickly and guiltily bowed, obviously still unsure just how he was supposed to treat this strange new King. “Yes sir! I mean, yes _sire_ , sir! I mean—”  

Even in the midst of his impatience, Bog had to roll his eyes with a smirk. No doubt his brother-in-law demanded the upmost formality, the ass. “As long as ye dinnae call me _dirty rotten Goblin_ , yer fine.”

The Elf started and then laughed, the action making his eyes crease into a happy squint. “I can do that, sir. I’ll get Pare to wait back by the Border to make sure y’all are accounted for. That good?”

Bog tried to nod but gods, this waiting wasn’t any kind of kindness to his heart, the anticipation of it all a nigh unbearable ache. He couldn’t take much more. He tried to keep any of this out of his voice as he looked to the trees, the thick foliage hiding anything from his eyes. “They’ll be here soon, aye?”

But there was a new slant to the Elf’s smile as he looked up at the King of the Dark Forest, commiserating and kind. “Yeah, they will. I hated waiting to see Dawn when she got back from Migration too, sir—”

Bog would have asked what the hells he meant by that, but there was a sudden surge in the song, a crescendo of cries. _“Here! They’re here!”_

Bog spun around, his heart in his throat, and sure enough, there were several small shapes above the line of his land, tiny specks swirling and twirling over the swaying treetops. They were too far away to see clearly, but Bog fancied there were flashes of color now and then from the sun falling across fluttering wings.

Suddenly it was very hard to swallow _. I’m going to be see her, finally see her—_

It was a good job that his wings didn’t stutter as his heart did then. Gods, but after all this time, the moment had finally come. _Please don’t let me make a ruin of it—_

“This way, your majesty!”

Snapping back to reality, Bog trained his eyes on the Elf as the little fellow made his way through the crowd, who parted before him to let him lead at the front. Bog swiftly followed, before realizing that the whole company was earth bound and therefore kept a much slower pace than his wings allowed him, meaning he would have even longer to wait. Bog grit his teeth, resisting the urge to claw a hand across his face in frustration. _Gods be sodding damned._

By the time the Fairy Palace finally came into view, Bog was near about to have a headache what with how he had ground his teeth, and was severely tempted to ditch the party entirely and find the main royal garden himself, manners be damned. It was only when he saw the gardens the crowd was aiming its track towards did his heart jolt – the same garden he and Marianne had talked by on that rainy day so long ago. _Those_ were the main royal gardens?

“Nice, aren’t they?” Sunny called up to Bog with a grin. “Perfect place to hold the reception too, what with it being right below the ballroom balcony!” He then turned back and raised his voice. “It looks great, girls!”

Bog turned as well and saw that he was addressing a veritable swarm of pixies, their movements a swirl of motion and color as they flew to and fro between the small courtyard and the pavilion of the sprawling gardens, both of which they had transformed into veritable bowers of blooms and blossoms, the arches of the high windows garnished with garlands woven with bluebells, poppies and buttercups, their colors popping against the stone of the boulder. Likewise, the walls in the courtyard were hung with the blooms as well, while thick clusters of lilacs and freesia stood about to perfume the air. Several butterflies had already come to drink freely from the sweet blooms, and dipped in drunken dances across the space, their wings so like the heralded fairies that Bog had to squint to make sure he wasn’t mistaking them for the other. A small stage had been erected near the front of the pavilion, and Bog saw a small clustering of brownies fuss about a table bearing a frankly enormous spread of food and drinks that was no doubt for the refreshment of their long overdue court.

Bog would have been impressed - or perhaps nauseated - by the sheer spread of wealth had he hadn’t been so busy scanning the sky then, his eyes tracking back and forth as he touched down to the ground. Surely they would have made it by now—?

“Sire!” Stuff and Thang were both clambering off their dragonflies, Thang gaping about at the embellishments and elegance about him. Stuff waved to Bog, her face just holding back a grimace at the unapologetically Fairy décor – even with being a professional, apparently there was only so much her Goblin sensibilities could bear. Her voice held a subtle edge of pleading. “Shall we double back now, BK?”

Bog was about to reply when there was a sudden crescendo of song from the elves and the sky. _What the hells—?_

The three goblins only had a moment to look up before the rush of song crashed over them, like a wave rushing over the shore or the sun breaking out from behind a bank of clouds. Suddenly the sky above them was filled with countless beings, their wings spangling sunlight and casting the ground beneath them into various rainbow tones as the brightness of the day shone through their wings. They dipped and danced in their descent, all singing sweet and strong, and the elves broke into wild cheers – the fairies had returned, and true to form, it was done with colorful aplomb and a multitude of the sweetest of splendors. The song from the elves rose again, and the fairies echoed it back, wordless and wonderful.  

Bog swiftly grabbed Stuff and Thang by the scruffs of their necks and retreated to the nearest patch of plants that would shield them from the onslaught of such songs, his head already buzzing with it. His time with at the Fairy Palace had given him some immunity to the constant use of songs in Fairy culture, but he was made of sterner stuff than either of his lackeys. Even as he deposited them at the base of some towering stargazer lilies that could serve as their refuge, Thang and Stuff were both holding their ears, Thang actually whimpering.

Bog would have rolled his eyes, but even he wasn’t that callous – his people preferred the darkness and shadows for a reason, after all. Sunlight and songs weren’t poisonous to those of the Dark Forest as the prejudices of the Fairy Kingdom had thought them to be, but singing their own songs amongst their people was a matter of willing participation and therefor something else entirely. The elves singing had been similar enough to their own that it wouldn’t trouble them. But now with the fairies back, it was like being subjected to an onslaught of blinding sunshine without any warning.

Bog spared no time in issuing his orders. “Get back to the Forest. If you see fit, collect the beeswax and pine sap for ear plugs.” He didn’t know how long the singing would last, after all.

The two of them nodded and quickly ran back to their steeds, the look on their faces profoundly grateful. Bog watched them go, their dragonflies dodging the flight of the fairies, before turning to the stage, making sure to keep himself beneath the shelter of the lilies as he watched it intently, his heartbeat picking up once more. That would be the space she would appear, he was sure of it—

Already were fairies touching down, embracing each other, greeting the elves and the brownies with friendly but formal waves. The pixies were not so restrained, and many bunches immediately flew to their favored persons to shower them with clamoring affection, causing those fairies to halt their songs in order to laugh and return such nuzzling. Bog spotted the little yellow one, Daffodil, shower a young blonde Fairy with gleeful little kisses, and could only hope she wouldn’t spot him.

Then—

In the midst of the greens and yellows and pale blues shining upon the ground, there was sudden flash of purple, and Bog’s heart nearly seized—

And there she was.

Marianne gracefully touched down upon the stage with her sister, the sun striking across her brow and the golden-green band of her crown, making her dark locks gleam and her skin glow. She wasn’t singing the song of her people, instead wearing an expression of furrowed concentration, looking around her as her sister twirled across the stage in a delirious dance of happiness. No doubt she was taking stock of the situation, making sure all was well.

And why wouldn’t she, thought Bog, determinedly ignoring how his heart was now thumping with positively painful thuds in his chest. Hells, but to be back after so long, of course that would be her first concern, not some silly song or—

_—or looking for him—_

He couldn’t help himself, stop himself from watching her, each flick of her fingers as she tucked her hair behind her ear, the path of her hands as they smoothed at her top, each tilt of her chin as her head moved back and forth to take in the spectacle of their homecoming, her eyes – _those eyes, gods, but to see them again_ – searching over the crowd. The Elf was up on the stage now, rushing to embrace his wife, and the young Queen smiled softly at the sight of them as they twirled around in their bliss at being back together, at being home, even after spending their Winter together.

A few feet away on the stage, the golden oaf had landed and was immediately greeted with a hail of cheers, causing him to laugh loudly, throwing his head back with the gesture, his armor and crown gleaming. He waved a hand over at Queen Marianne to come over to him, not even looking to see if she obeyed. Her soft smile fell for a resigned eye roll and a slight pull of lip that could have been a grimace as she turned to walk towards her King.

All this Bog saw, drinking her in like the most parched of beasts at a spring, aching to reach out for her, _to_ her—

But then her footsteps to Roland abruptly halted as she looked to the lilies.

And the King they sheltered.

Bog’s mind blanked. _She had seen him._

_Oh gods…_

In the midst of the moment, Bog was aware enough to know that the world did not stop, though for the briefest breath it felt as though his heart had as their eyes met.

It did not stop, but continued on with the inane formalities of the ceremonies of returning, the throng still very much present and still very much intent on singing their songs, elves and brownies and pixies raising their voices in warm welcome, whilst the fairies replied with a deep delight in an arrival long denied. None of this ceased when Marianne’s eyes met his.

Yet the need to move along with the rush of it, to participate in power plays and politics, was simply exposed as nothing in comparison to the need to drown in that long denied golden gaze, the depths of them damning any memory he had held over the Winter with their living luster.  

Bog found that the former fervor that had so consumed him until now was now easily brushed away in their presence. In fact, his only concern was to take in how those amber eyes widened in that achingly familiar way, how the dark, lush line of her lashes fluttered in the Spring breeze, how her face reminded him of a flower, open and fresh and fixed on him, like _he_ was the light so long denied…

She was _there,_ just across the crowd from him, so far and yet so close, the closest she had been to him and him to her for so very, _very_ long—

And then she smiled.

And if her face was a flower before, now it was a garden, blooming bright with a beauty hidden away for far too long, and Bog’s heart near about burst, his incredulous delight was so great.

_For me, all for me, such happiness and all because of **me** —_

Bog knew he must look an absolute fool, completely unable to keep his smile from burgeoning across his face, but Marianne’s own merely spread all the more as she watched him, apparently just as content to take him in as he was with her.

In that moment, Bog dared to step into the sunlight, and its warmth on his scales was nothing compared to the light of her smile, her amber-warm eyes. His wings shivered, and for the life of him, Bog didn’t know why.

All he knew was that the thought that had kept him going through the Winter had finally come to be, the price of dearly held dreams be damned.  

_She’s back. She’s back and right in front of me._

As Bog stood there, surrounded by sunlight and sweetness and song and all that was deemed intolerable by his people, he could think of no place he would rather be, standing only so far away from Marianne with her smile upon him.  

* * *

Of course, the rest couldn’t be _that_ easy.

Claws scrapped down the already deep grooves of his scepter as Bog bit back a harsh exhale, fighting the urge to swat at the lilacs hanging overhead, the sickly-sweet scent of them nigh overpowering even in a good mood. In his current state, it was too bloody much.

No sooner had Marianne taken a single step in his direction and he to her when they had both been swarmed with dignitaries and nobles on both sides, all pressing for their attention, their thoughts on how the Winter had passed, every bloody detail demanded. Bog had almost yelped in the sudden onslaught, and he was direly certain that the look he had passed over the heads of the crowd was one of panic and pleading, _a **fine** thing for a King to show—_

To be fair, Marianne had looked none too happy either as she looked over her own crowd, her brow hard and flat over her eyes, her mouth fixed in a tense line as her people clamored about her, unceasing and unrelenting in what they asked of the young Queen only just returned. Bog now bit back a hard and sympathetic sigh at the memory of her face, leaning against the stalk of the lilacs, one of his mother’s many sayings brought to mind. _Anyone who fantasizes about ruling is one fungi short of a fairy ring._

After the river of unrelenting questions had tapered off into a gurgle of inquiries, what had followed was a formal presentation from the Fairy Kingdom to cement their return from the Winter, then an official tour and inspection of the Palace, before this final ceremony held once again in the gardens. All of which had of course demanded more songs and dances in both the figurative and literal sense. It was to be expected, of course, given the affection fairies held for both, but as Roland made himself the focus of each song and speech, it wore on already thin nerves. Honestly, it was probably a good thing that Griselda had been having one of her allergy onslaughts and had deemed herself too sick to attend the ceremony. Bog was sure that even her love of parties would have been tested and tried by the prattling pettiness of the golden idiot.

Hells, he wouldn’t have minded it all so much if he had simply had a moment to _talk_ with Marianne—

Bog sighed once more as he sank further back against the stalk, causing one of the blooms to bounce closer to him, the ripe perfume of it cloying and close. With aimless ease, Bog reached and ripped down one of the blossoms, rending it with idle ferocity between his claws as he watched the happy crowd with a wilting will any introvert would appreciate. Wonders of wonders, despite being King of the Dark Forest and the one of the very reasons the Winter _had_ been such a success, Bog had managed to keep himself to the sidelines of the crowds well enough throughout all of the ceremonies. It was a fact no doubt helped by Roland’s glory seeking ways, and Bog found he didn’t give a damn about not receiving recognition as long as he wasn’t bloody expected to participate in a number. _There’s diplomacy, and then there’s lunacy._

Still, he had hoped…

Bog frowned, his claws pricking at his skin as he clenched a fist. No need to get bloody greedy. Seeing her had been bloody well enough, a talk would come later.

Maybe even later that day, if he was lucky…

If he could find her, that was.

He had tried to keep her in his sights throughout everything, but Marianne had managed to slip away from the proceedings with a stealth that would do any warrior proud. Indeed, Bog would have readily offered his congratulations on that fact if only he bloody knew where she had gone off too. No doubt she had seen the same proceedings in the past and knew when to make her escape. _Clever girl_.

Bog let the remains of the flower fall from his fingers as he turned his head away from the crowd. No one was bloody paying attention to him now, just like they hadn’t at that past party. Perhaps…

Hells, she had once flown into his Kingdom uninvited, once upon a time. Surely he could do so now to seek her out…?

_“Impetuous.”_

Bog scowled and ripped another bloom from the bower before him, rending with a fine bit more of ferocity then he had the last one. _Sod off, Plum, you’re not but a memory and an annoying one at that._

He was already _in_ her Kingdom, anyway—

“Sire? Is it fair of us to leave soon?”

Bog sighed as he turned to Muggon, who looked up at his King with an expression that was pleading it was almost pained. “Muggon, if you can stomach guttin’ and skinnin’ a squirrel in the dead of Winter, ye can stomach a party for a while yet. I need to stay here.” _And see if I can find her again—_

“That’s hardly a fair comparison,” Muggon groused, looking thoroughly put out. “One of those things is a pleasure, the other is a pain.”

Bog nearly groaned, he was so sodding done with it all. “Muggon, fer mud’s sake, get over yer—”

“Um, your highness? Bog King?”

The two goblins immediately stopped and looked at the young Fairy maiden before them with surprise, which only seemed to make the already nervous lass all the more uncomfortable, twisting a pale golden curl around her finger and biting her rosebud of a lower lip in consternation as she took in the two fierce beings before her.

The Pixie hovering over her shoulder was what caught Bog’s attention, and he surprised himself with his smile at the sight of them. “Lady Daffodil! How fares ye?”

The Pixie chittered and chirped in delight before zooming up to him and around him a fair few times, trilling her happiness at his greeting. Muggon gaped, and the Fairy maiden blinked frankly enormous brown eyes – not the amber-gold of Marianne’s, but the soft brown of soil – in amazement. “Daffy, you _know_ each other?”

“We met during the Winter,” Bog clarified, mildly wishing he could shoo away the creature without hurting her physically nor her feelings. Aware that Muggon was still gaping, he cleared his throat and stood his scepter in the ground, drawing himself up as regally as he could. “What is it, Lady…?”

The lass blinked again then blushed, the pink of her cheeks far outstripping any of the roses beside them. “ _Oh!_ Um, Daisy. Lady Daisy. I mean, just Daisy is fine…” she trailed off and gave a clearly embarrassed wriggle. “Whichever you prefer, sir. I mean, Sire.”

She snuck another look at Daffodil as she still merrily made her way around the dark and dire King, and was obviously unable to hold back her amazement. “I can’t _believe_ she likes you so much…!”

Muggon dropped his gaping in favor of a scowl, and Daisy’s cheeks flushed crimson once more, but Bog merely chuckled. “Nor can I, lass. What was it ye wanted?” Amusing as it was to him, he doubted a girl as naturally nervous as she seemed had willingly come to him to chat about her little friend.

Daisy, clearly quelling under Muggon’s fierce look, started and flushed even more. “Sorry, I meant to tell you straight away – I mean, she _wanted_ me to tell you as soon as I found you…”

She stopped herself and took a breath, straightening her shoulders and spine even as her hands tucked themselves in her skirt, still clearly nervous. “Queen Marianne sent Daffy – I mean, Daffodil to come ask you to the Library. If you wanted to meet her there, that is? Apparently she wants to talk to you—”

She stopped with a little shriek as Bog went past her in a rush of wind and wings.

Remembering himself, he flipped around midair to address Muggon. “Muggon, find Stuff and Thang and let them know Ah’m meeting with the Queen. If they wish to leave before th’ end of th’ ceremonies, tell th’ fairies my mother is ill and she needs attending to.” It was true enough, wasn’t it?

Muggon had lost any trace of his scowl in favor of panic, his dark eyes darting back and forth between his King and Daisy. “Alright, but – ah – what do I do _afterwards,_ your majesty?”

Bog favored him with a slightly evil smile. “Why, enjoy th’ conversation with this fine lass, mah good Goblin.”

Muggon scowled once more, gritting his teeth so hard Bog could easily imagine the dagger he was certain his lackey was yearning for in that moment. His smile growing, he inclined his head to Daisy, who also seemed less then enthused about keeping her current company. In fact, the girl looked rather faint. “A great gratitude to ye, my dear, but Ah best go now – it would nae do ta keep yer Queen waiting, would it?”

Hells, like _he_ would be able to be kept waiting any longer—

_“Hmph! Since when do you ever?”_

With that dratted voice in his ears and that thought in mind, Bog rolled back into his original path and sped through the air, the sight of Muggon shooting him a discrete obscene gesture doing nothing to stop the chuckle he had to give.

A chat in the library, eh? He could do that. He most certainly could do that _indeed._

* * *

The route to the Library was as well-known and familiar as ever, though sheets were now draped over the furniture, no doubt as protection from the dust and frosts of the Winter. They would’ve made a ghostly sight if not for the swarms of pixies taking them off and shaking them out, chirping and cheeping merrily, buzzing about in bright swirls of color.

That was until Bog passed by, and the small clouds of them were scattered, the wee things tumbling back with shrill little screams from the force of his speed. Looking back, Bog gave an apologetic grimace before continuing on, still intent. So close, he was _so_ close—

And then he was there, almost all too soon, the doors of the Library looming before him.

His frantic flight at an end, Bog touched down, the buzzing of his wings slowing to a stop as a strange sort of trepidation coming over his heart. Just beyond the doors, that was where she was…

They could finally _talk_ after all this time, just like before…

A Winter without her, and now she was here, just a few feet of wood and gilt separating them the only barrier between them now…

Bog lifted his fist, then lowered it, his heart giving a queer thud. What if he did something to ruin it?

_Enough stalling, ye great coward._

Bog closed his eyes and took the deepest breath he could manage, the feel of it rattling through his scales before he let it out in a great gust and knocked on the door before his nerve could fail him, his heart echoing the hammer of it.

There was silence, and for a few heartsick seconds, Bog wondered if the Fairy maid had been mistaken—

Then a familiar alto called out curiously, even cautiously. “Who is it?”

_Oh gods._

It took Bog several seconds to find the breath for his reply, meager as it was. “Me.”

There was a pause that seemed to last forever to Bog, and he began to panic anew. Oh hells, had he already done something wrong—?

Then the door opened with a great heave, and there was Marianne, standing there with a smile of such sincerity upon her face Bog felt his heart stutter.

_She looked…_

Bog wasn’t sure how he managed the few steps past the doorway, Marianne quickly stepping back to let him through, but somehow he did it with enough sense not to stumble as he drank her in.

She had changed out of her traveling outfit into a new gown, the purple iris petals hugging her slender waist like a lover’s embrace. Her hair seemed lighter, a bit more golden-red then when he had last seen her, and there was a glow of sun to her skin. Even her wings seemed to shimmer with a new iridescence as they flowed behind her. Undoubtedly it was all because of the sunlight she had seen in the South.

Or perhaps his memory had betrayed him and she had always looked so bright, so—

Thoughts and feelings crashed through him, words tumbling upon his tongue before he just managed to keep them back behind his fangs. The thing that remained clear in the tumult of it all was the desire to take her in, bask in her being _there, right there_ , when for so long she hadn’t. This whole time he had felt it, had fought against the fast-burgeoning bud of it in him, impatient and ill-concealed no matter how hard he had tried to dismiss it.

Now it was all he could to steady his drinking in of the shine of those dark locks under the light of the Library, that warm flush in those cheeks and the amber flash of those eyes he had – _so dearly_ – missed, all of her so tangible and so _there_ —

He wanted…

Marianne let out a soft, breathless laugh under the continued silence, bashful but beaming, her eyes sweeping down and her wee white teeth catching at her lower lip in a vulnerable bite, slender fingers twisting at each other, hands clasping together for comfort. Bog’s fingers itched to curl along them, feel the press of her palm against his once more, hold her—

Hold her.

_He wanted to hold her._

The tempest storming within him came to a crashing calm as Bog’s mind blanked with shock. He wanted to _hold_ her?

_—hold her hug her embrace her feel her heartbeat against his know that she was **there** , there there there, with **him** —_

Bog tried very hard not to reel. He – that – that was _completely_ inappropriate, especially between two rulers, rulers of neighboring kingdoms—!

_—but between you and her—_

Bog viciously pushed the thought away. They were a King and a Queen. His kind may have never set much store in fluttery, fanciful forms of formality, but some codes had to be observed, impetuous impulses or not.

More importantly, such an action would be undoubtedly shocking for Marianne, most _definitely_ unwelcome—

_Like anyone would welcome being in your arms—_

The hot, discomforting prickle of angry acknowledgement and bitter acceptance in the wake of that venomous old voice brought Bog back to the fact that he was still stewing in silence whilst the poor girl was waiting for him to speak, amber eyes wide and getting worried—

_You great git, bloody well **do** something.  _

His hand nearly shot forward in decisive determination before Bog caught himself in time and gentled the action, claws curling in careful consideration, his palm open and up and undemanding. No matter what her response would be, a returning clasp or a rejection, it was hers to make and his to readily accept.

Marianne looked up at him, eyes still wide, and something in them _flickered,_ a faint flame of something – _disappointment?_ – in those amber depths before she softly placed her hand in his.

For one brief moment, so brief that Bog could have easily dismissed it as mere imagination, her fingers seemed to curl at his, clasp him closer, a coil of power tensing through her arm like she was preparing to tug, pull him to her—

And then those glowing gold eyes ducked down, and Marianne gave another soft, bashful laugh, giving his hand a firm shake before letting go and clasping her hands together, tucking them into her skirt. Her voice carried the same warmth and edge of embarrassment that traced her smile. “It’s…good to see you again, Bog King.”

Bog had to fight once more for the breath that formed his reply, and even then, it was a trial to get the words out. “And…and you, Queen Marianne.”

_Oh, brilliantly spoken, you great git. Yer winning awards for sheer prose._

Marianne gave another laugh that distracted that poisonous voice, breathless and bashful still. “I—I mean, it’s _incredibly_ good to talk to you, face to face. I was so scared that we wouldn’t be able to, if you needed to get back to your Kingdom—” she stopped and looked at him with wide, worried eyes. “You don’t need to go now, do you?”

Bog gave a laugh of his own, even softer than hers, both amused and touched at her endless concern. “I—no, there’s no worry of that. They know that I wanted—I mean, that I needed to be here. I…”

He paused and hoped his words didn’t betray his heart. “…I can stay as long as you need me to.”

Marianne’s smile was so giddy with gladness that Bog almost had to grin himself, it was so infectious. _“Good._ I mean—!” she stopped and stumbled, her words and wants so clearly conflicting, her hands leaving her skirt to twist at each other. “I don’t want you to feel as though you _have_ to stay as long as I want you to, because, well, I know that, ah, the ceremony and the tour must have been quite tiring and, um, _tedious_ , I mean, hell, it’s tedious even for me and I’m the Queen here—”

She stopped again then sighed before letting her head drop into her hand, her crown gleaming with the gesture and her voice muffled. “I swore to myself I wouldn’t do this.”

_“This?”_ Bog knew he shouldn’t be grinning, but gods, he couldn’t help it, he so loved hearing her voice again, after a Winter of its silence, and she was so… _endearing_ when she let her words carry her away—

Marianne looked up to give him an apologetic, lop-sided smile. “Babble. Get clumsy. I always do that when I’m hap—” she stopped and cleared her throat, bringing a hand through her hair as a blush came back on her cheeks, “—when my emotions get the better of me. I…”

She stopped again and her blush deepened before she took a deep breath and straightened her spine, her skirt rustling. “Well…suffice to say, I didn’t and don’t want to waste your time. That’s not the point of the diplomacy, and I know that you’re probably sick of all the songs and dances we put on in this Kingdom when it comes to politics—”

“You’re not entirely wrong,” Bog replied, smiling wryly. “Particularly when your King is the one singing and dancing them.”

Marianne snorted before controlling herself. “Regardless, I wanted you to know how deeply we appreciated everything you’ve done this past season.” She laid her hand on his forearm, and Bog felt a prickling warmth flood from the spot, her the press of her palm sinking into him like something he had no words for—

Marianne continued on, oblivious of the effect such a simple touch was having on him, and Bog fought to regain what control he could and pay attention to her words. “—practically _sang_ about how much the fireroot helped them this season. You know how much music means to this Kingdom, so that’s huge coming from them. And then to have invited you to one of their communal sings—!”

She stopped and exhaled, a great gust of pleasure. “I knew it was going to be a success. But to have such an outpouring, to have them make such a point of singing your praises to everyone, and to see them greet your people with such good cheer…”

Bog smiled with pleased wryness. “It almost makes this Winter worth it.”

Marianne looked at him concernedly. “What do you mean?”

Bog immediately wished he hadn’t said anything. “Nothing, it’s nothing, I promise you—”

She didn’t need to hear about how he had fared, after all—

Marianne put her hands on her hips and gave him a stern look, her manner so like his mother’s that Bog almost laughed.

Instead, he tried not to do her any disservice and fought to find the right words, ones that would pacify and yet inform, divulge and yet not be steeped in self-pity. “This Winter…”

_Was hell? Hateful? A bane because you were gone?_

Bog cleared his throat and raised a shoulder, setting his scales to crackle as he dropped his gaze away from her, feeling something close to almost… _bashful?_ “Well…it seemed a long one.”

He couldn’t very well tell her it was made all the longer by _her_ absence, after all, he wasn’t about to pile on meaningless guilt, not when she was here _now_ —

“I know what you mean.” She turned and walked to the table, leaning against with a carelessness one wouldn’t think would come from a Queen. The gesture was so familiar and welcome that Bog only just restrained his pleasure at it in a half smile.

Marianne caught it and a smile of her own blossomed upon her face as she took him in, the look in her eyes fond. “I hope at the very least yours was better than mine.”

_Doubtful, that._ But there was something beneath that amber-gold gleam, something staining her tone that made Bog look at her in concern as he joined her at the table. “It was a trying Winter for you as well?”

For while he was sure any Fairy would be nothing but happy to be away from the snows and drenched in sunshine, Marianne was _different_. He had reread her letter enough times to recall her words, the cursive carefully constraining an unhappiness Bog was all too ready to remedy.

Marianne sighed, her smile dropping along with her eyes, and she studied her hands as they twined together in front of her. “Well, some parts were… _lovely._ Being with Dawn and Sunny, seeing Jasmine, that was great.” Her lips curved in a brief hint of a half-smile before it fell once more, and she fell into pensive, almost pained lines. “But, there…there was… _other_ stuff.” Her brow furrowed, and her lip curled. “Council stuff.”

Bog drew his head up at that, a sage and sad understanding in his voice. _“Ah.”_

“Right.” Marianne rolled her eyes, an unhappy scowl twisting her fine features. “ _Shockingly,_ they weren’t _pleased_ with my reports about all that you and I accomplished this Fall, nor by the fact that I was still so _eager_ to continue working on our diplomatic aims even during our stay in the Southern Fairy Empire.  Apparently, they were under the impression that a Winter away from y—”

She stopped and flushed before continuing, speaking with what seemed to be more care. “A Winter away from _here_ would have caused the flame of my enthusiasm to cool.” She smirked unhappily. “So to speak.”

Bog looked at her, her small stature smaller in her unhappiness as her shoulders drew up and she crossed her arms in front of her, and a positive deluge of distress made his fingers twitch with the need to reach out to her as she stood by the table, take her hand, comfort her somehow.

He set his jaw and contented himself with moving closer, hoping that his voice held some of the pained sympathy so heavy in his heart. _“Ah’m sorry…”_

Disquietingly, Marianne seemed to withdraw further at that, ducking her head down as she spoke once more, her voice strangely dull. “I wouldn’t have minded so much, but then they…” she sighed gustily before raising her head to meet Bog’s worried gaze, her face almost brutally blank. “They apparently used the Fall to do some brainstorming sessions themselves, to think of ways to improve the moral of the Kingdom other than diplomacy.”

Bog blinked before sputtering in his shock. “But…it’s a success! We _know_ it to be—”

Marianne laughed, soft and bitter. “Like they would let that stop them. Prejudice is a weed that never stops. It just finds new ways to grow back.” She ran a hand through her hair, rough enough that her crown was set slightly askew, sighing as she did so. “The Council had many…” her lip curled, “… _suggestions_ for alternate ways in which to improve the moral of the Kingdom.” Her voice became dull once more. “One way garnered almost… _unequivocal_ support.”  

Bog raised a scaly brow at her, trying to ignore the foreboding unfurling in him like some awful bloom. “Which is…?”

She looked away. “An heir to the throne.”

Bog could only stare at her in the silence that followed, the slow rise of horror within him sticking in his throat, stopping him from speaking.

_No…oh gods, **no** …_

Marianne’s shoulders rose and fell with her silent, deep inhale, before she looked up with a briskness that bordered on brusque. She then turned to the table with a tenseness in her shoulders that traveled down her wings as she began to sort through the papers on the tabletop, gathering and shuffling them in a forceful manner that seemed to hold no true rhyme or reason. “Like that will happen. Still, good to know that they recognize my worth.” Her voice was as bitter as belladonna seeds, brittle as bones. “Roland’s the King. I’m the breeder.”

Bog stared at her, horrified at the resignation in her voice, and the words left his mouth before he could even think. “ _You’re the heir to the throne.”_

She looked up at him sharply, her brow furrowing, the papers slacking out of her grip.

Bog continued, urgent and low, determined to make her _see_ , make her _understand_ that she was not – that she was so much _more_ – “You were _born_ to rule, a royal by blood and character. _He_ had to marry _you_ to get whatever power he has. He is _nothing_ without you.”

_He is nothing **compared** to you._

Marianne’s wide eyes were had grown wider still, and she was so silent as she stared at him Bog wondered if her very breath had stopped. The look in her eyes was one of an almost unnerving intensity, as if there was a chance that if she were to give even the merest blink, he would disappear.

And she desperately didn’t want that…

The thought came so suddenly that it was Bog who blinked, before furiously focusing on something else so he would not follow such an idea. Looking away, he cleared his throat, shrugging his shoulders with a crackle of scales. “B-besides, if the need for the heir was so very _pressing_ …” he paused to look at Marianne, careful cautious concern at odds with honest confusion, “…is not adoption an equal path to parenthood?”      

Marianne blinked and started, passing a hand through her hair once more and making a noise that was somehow a huff of laughter and a shaky exhale. “It…it _absolutely_ is, but…the Council isn’t concerned about _parenthood._ They want an _heir._ Someone to continue the royal bloodline. I’m pretty sure there some horrible old archaic laws about it too.” She crossed her arms once more and slumped against the table, her face somewhere between rueful and wrathful. “I would love to destroy them, but fat chance of _that_ happening.”

Bog shook his head, appalled. “But if you _chose_ the child—!”  

Marianne’s voice was horribly flat. “In their eyes, the symbolism of blood trumps the power of choice, even if it comes from a Queen.” She paused before continuing, her voice turning soft, a melancholy murmur. “Besides…no matter how _badly_ I want—” she stopped to take a breath, so deeply it was almost a shudder, before continuing with a detached determination that was honestly dreadful. “I couldn’t live with myself, bringing in an innocent child into such a sham of a—”

She stopped again, took another breath, and closed her eyes. “Into a marriage like Roland’s and mine. I don’t…I _can’t_ do that. I _won’t_ do that.” She then sighed, uncrossing her arms to press a hand to the back of her neck. “Besides, I don’t think Roland has ever wanted to be a father.”  

She then shrugged, turning her head away with a determinedly blasé air that made Bog’s heart ache anew _. So careful to mask her unhappiness._ “Anyway, I decided long ago to pass the throne onto Dawn and Sunny. Sunny might not be able to be recognized as King, but everyone will be happy to have Dawn on the throne.”

Bog silently ruminated over this news, considering the implications of it. To have an Elf on the throne would no doubt cause no small amount of chaos in the Fairy Kingdom. Marianne was wise to play to the power and popularity that her sister held over the court, and undoubtedly she had considered the support those in the Fields would give to her brother-in-law, even if it was only her sister who bore an actual title.

Yet there was one detail that was distracting him…

Bog his lower lip a slow pass of his tongue, wondering if he even dared pursue such a train of thought. Surely it would hurt her further still to discuss—

“You can ask it, whatever it is.”

He started and looked up, and Marianne gave him a smirk that didn’t negate the weary fondness in her eyes as she looked at him. “I know you well enough by now to tell when you’re trying to hold yourself back from doing something. And I always prefer answering questions then dealing with assumptions.”

_Right._ Bog swallowed and scratched at the back of his neck, nervous nonetheless. “You…said you believe your husband has never wanted to…to enter parenthood. Would…would you…?”

Marianne looked at him with those large, luminescent eyes, eyes that could give him so much but gave nothing to him now, and Bog wondered if he had made a fatal mistake.  

Then she turned to the table, her easy casualness almost surreal, leaving Bog to look at her back, the gentle shifting of her wings.

Her voice was clear and calm when she spoke, her hands busying themselves with another bundle of paper. “I suppose that’s what makes it such a shame. I…”

She paused, then slowly and softly set the papers down to the table. Bog saw the slight tilt to her chin that kept her face even more away from him.

And gods help him, but he couldn’t stop himself from taking that one worried step to her, his tread almost timid.

Marianne must have sensed him all the same and turned back to face him. Though her face wore an inscrutable expression, her eyes were down and withdrawn, gone to some secret, silent pain. Yet when she spoke, her voice was still collected. “I always wanted to be a mother.”

Bog lowered his eyes, his heart giving an even fiercer ache, unable to look at her as the sight would bring even more pain, a reminder of all that she was and all that she was unable to be. Fiercely protective, forthright and fair, warm and compassionate and kind…she would be a wonderful mother, and now…

_Gods, but it’s so **wretchedly** unfair. _

Bog exhaled, slow and steady. Like his unhappiness at her own would make her feel any bloody better.

Then a thought went through his mind with such striking horror that he almost reeled, aghast at the very thought, the very chance—

_Oh Gods, please no, please please **please** no…_

Marianne turned to him, going tense as a hare sighting a hawk as she looked at him, her face full of fierce concern. “What it is? What’s wrong?”

Bog shook his head dumbly, numb with the still fresh horror of the thought. He had caused her enough pain with his prying, he wouldn’t add anymore, especially not if there was a chance that they…that _he_ …

Marianne set her jaw, her ferocity fierce as thorns and her concern tender as petals. “Don’t you shake your head at me, you’re obviously freaking out about something, now what is it—?”

“Ah don’…” Bog stopped and cleared his throat, trying to rid himself of the telling rasp in his voice before speaking once more. “I’ve troubled you enough with questions, I don’t want to cause you any more pain—”

“And I don’t want _you_ hurt either,” Marianne retorted, her stern words accompanied by the soft touch of her hand on where his hand held his scepter with clenched knuckles. Her eyes were so soft as they looked at him, so ready to put aside her pain when faced with his. _“Please_ …let me help you like you’ve helped me.”

_Well then…_

Bog ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth, wishing he could test the mettle of his words on them, taking time to taste them on his tongue before finally speaking. Even then, they sounded trepidatious as he tried to keep his fierce turmoil at bay. “You say that the Council has put this pressure upon you. Given how…they’ve frequently have his support in the past, I know how often your husband sides with them.”

He stopped and breathed as deeply and evenly as he could, even as the sickening thought pushed up through him like welling bile. When he spoke, his words were halting, trying to lessen the horror of them. “Is there…is there a chance, a danger of him…of him…?”

Marianne stared up at him, her brow knit in perplexion and still fierce concern, obviously trying to make sense of the implication of his words, and Bog could only pray that he wouldn’t be forced to make himself plainer.

And that if the golden braggart _had_ done something that irredeemably vile to her, that his claws were sharp enough to gut him from stomach to sternum to stupidly shining smile—

There was a sudden dawning in Marianne’s eyes, and the same horror in the pit of Bog’s stomach was on her face, her features twisted in fresh and fearful understanding.

Then she looked into his eyes, and all fear and revulsion fled, leaving only desperately distressed reassurance.

She reached a hand to his, seizing it with the obvious intent to comfort, the clutch of her fingers so fierce his hand ached. _“No,”_ she said, low and obviously trying to dispel his own horror, even in the face of her own. “Oh god, no no no, it’s…no, I truly don’t believe there’s a danger of…” she swallowed, the slender line of her throat working, trying to get the words out, “…of _that_. Roland wouldn’t dare.”

Bog closed his eyes, his relief was that great. He had never had to deal with the abomination of rape in his kingdom, what with all goblins holding it as the horror it was, but to think of Marianne in such a position…it tore him to his core. To hells with the diplomacy if the bastard so much as laid a hand on her—

Marianne continued on, tripping over her words in her haste to reassure him. “I mean, I think…I would hope that there are… _things_ beyond him. The most he does is try to convince me of the Council’s ‘wisdom’, but…” Marianne trailed off and sighed, lifting a shoulder.  “Roland doesn’t really… _care_ about the future of the Kingdom.” She then snorted. “Well, apart from the fact that he’s the King of it. But in his eyes, it begins and ends with his reign. Besides, we haven’t shared a bed for—”

Marianne stopped, her whole face aflame.

Bog felt a wave of awkwardness wash over him as well, hot and prickling, as the weight of such an admission sunk through. As close as he and she had become, there still remained some lines that were not to be overstepped. And he already knew far too much about her marriage to begin with.

_Would you want it any other way, if you knowing is a comfort to her?_

Surprised, Bog tilted his head at the thought. The echo of old words rang in his ears: _“_ _You needn’t worry about letting yourself truly be…be_ _you_ _. There’s no shame in that.”_

He had meant them that night, hadn’t he? Marianne had never given any inclination of _not_ wanting to confide in him, and whenever she had expressed reluctance or embarrassment, it had been over her concern of his discomfort.

And he had never turned her away. To be sure, he had never let her know he had soused out Roland’s unfaithfulness, nor had she ever mentioned it to him, but still…as far as he knew, he was the closest thing Marianne had to a confident, besides from her sister and her pixies.

And who was he to shirk such a role?

He was the Bog King of the Dark Forest, and he had never turned down a duty before.

Meanwhile, Marianne seemed to have recovered from her humiliation and had shrugged back her shoulders, her mouth in a moue of resolve. “So…yeah. Roland hasn’t a chance to try anything like that. Even if he wanted to…” a look of disgust flitted across her face before she pushed on determinedly, “…like you said, I’m the heir to the throne. If he harmed me in any way—” she stopped and gave a wry smile, “—well, physically harmed me in anyway, he would have the whole kingdom to answer to. They might take flirting with other women lightly, but not that.”

She then sighed, letting her shoulders slump in a shrug. “Besides…I’ve learned to take care of myself.”

Bog smiled sadly, wishing he could say something to put a smile back on her face. “I don’t doubt you there, Tough Girl.”

Marianne looked at him curiously, her eyebrows quirking. _“Tough Girl?”_

Now it was Bog’s face that was aflame. “Ah—Ah’m sorry, that was—”

“No, it’s fine.” Amazingly, Marianne was smiling. “I just…no one has ever called me that. Roland always calls me _Buttercup_ —” her nose scrunched in disgust, “—or _pretty little thing_. He’s never…he never would call me strong or tough or anything like that.” She gave a wry smile once more. “Probably wouldn’t think it’s ladylike.”

“That you put any store by what that fool thinks is a kindness he doesn’t deserve,” Bog retorted gently, daring to give her a smile of his own.

Marianne laughed, and it sung through Bog like the sweetest song. Gods, to think he had missed her _voice_ —

Marianne smiled at him, full and frank, beautiful and beaming, and her laughter still colored her words when she spoke, shaping them into something beyond any kind of sweetness Bog had ever known. “God, I’ve missed you.”

She took a step to him, her arms rising, and suddenly his heart was in his throat—

Marianne halted before blushing brilliantly, her hands falling to her sides, twisting into the fabric of her skirt. “I…I actually had an idea I did want to discuss with you, one that’s…that’s sort of related to that.” She pushed a hand through her hair, her cheeks still carrying a bit of pink. “Missing you, I mean.” She stopped and let out a soft, deprecating laugh. “I’m sorry, I sound so sappy each time I say it—”

“Ye truly don’t,” Bog managed to say, and for some reason his heart was pounding. Gods, he could listen to her say that all day. _Him_ , she had missed  _him_ —

She smiled at him gratefully before clearing her throat and continuing. “Well, the thing is…I _know_ that you don’t like to be away from your Forest, so you can absolutely veto this if you think it won’t be useful, but…” her fingers fiddled with the bodice of her dress, picking at petals, and the look she gave him was hesitant, almost shy. “I…I was thinking of building a wing for you.”

Bog could only blink at her in his shock. “A…a wing? _Here?_ At the Fairy Palace?”

She gave him a smile both nervous and teasing. “Well, _yeah_ , where else?” She blew out a breath, a strand of her hair fluttering out of the way. “I just…I just thought that it might be nice, you know? Having a place for you to stay so you wouldn’t have to keep traveling back and forth. Knowing that…” she blushed again, her eyes ducking down, shyness once more stealing over her, “…knowing that you’re _here_ , even if it’s only for a night or two. After a Winter without you, I…I think it could be nice. _Would_ be nice.”

She stole look up at him, biting her lip and then shrugging in a determinedly nonchalant way. “At the very least, it’s a definite show of hospitality between the two Kingdoms, and maybe we can get both of our people to work on it, architects and laborers and, and—”

Marianne stopped with a sharp inhale as Bog took her hand in his, and even he wondered at his daring as he raised it up between them to cover it with his other hand. But it was suddenly rendered a matter of little to no consequence when he looked into her eyes, their great golden-brown depths so deep, so guileless and gorgeous…

He had had no intention of sounding so tender when he spoke, but he simply couldn’t summon up a damn. “You would give me a home here?”

Marianne stared up into his eyes, so close that he could see the butterfly-flutter of her pulse on her throat. “Only if you wanted one,” she breathed.

Bog could only nod, his heart too strangely full for him to answer.

Marianne blinked then ducked her head down, her free hand going to her hair and a blush once more stealing over her features, her wee teeth biting into her lower lip, deprecating and delicate. “I mean…if you really think it’s a good idea…I don’t want you to only do it because I’m a huge sap who missed you so much that she can’t bear to be without you now—”

“I did too.”

Marianne stopped completely to look up into Bog’s eyes, her own eyes wide.

“Miss you.” Bog’s throat was tight, his heart so full of something inexplicable and unexplainable and all for her that it ached, but he could only continue. _“I missed you too. So much.”_

Marianne remained stock still, her eyes still taking him in, her lips parted.

Bog felt the prickle of humiliation begin to creep over him, and he cleared his throat, his scales rattling as he shrugged his shoulders, preparing to drop her hand which he really ought to have done ages ago. _You great prat._ “That is, I, uh—”

The rest of Bog’s words left him in a gasp as Marianne launched herself into his arms, her hug fierce and strong, her tiny body clutching at his in a clasp that the flytraps of his Kingdom couldn’t have competed with.

Bog could only gape as he stared down at her, his hands hovering over her form, his heartbeat thundering beneath her cheek. She was—

He was—

No had _ever,_ no one besides his mother, no one had ever _dared_ to—

And _she_ had—

And she felt _so_ —

Slowly, softly, his touch as tentative and timid as a twice-burned moth, his hands settled over her back, and Bog wondered at the feel of the petals beneath the wide weight of his palms, so soft under his skin, so warm from her body…

A strange and sudden flash of something went through him at that thought, and Bog could only spare it a passing glance as he quickly discovered just how _huge_ he was in comparison to her. The top of her head only barely brushed where his chest began, but her arms, slender and yet so very strong, easily wrapped around the skinny, scaly trunk of his waist. His hands covered the width of her waist and then some, and Bog found that he could just as easily span the length of her spine with them too. Now more than ever did he take care with his claws, his heartbeat hammering at the thought of her dress rent by him, or gods forbid, her skin…

He could so easily hurt her without even meaning to. He knew that, she _had_ to know that…

And yet here she was, hugging him like…like…

_Like she’s been wanting to hold you as much as you had wanted to hold her?_

Bog nearly reeled at the thought. For him to feel such a way for her, that was one thing, but to have anyone nurse such a feeling for him—!

It was then that it truly dawned on him, the feel of her in his arms and the press of his palms upon her back and her breath above his breast all combining into a powerful punch of understanding.

_She had missed him._

She had truly, _truly_ missed him.

Bog’s gaping shock slowly faded into a slow and wondering smile. He looked down once more at her, this young Fairy so ferociously fine in all her ambitions and dearly held dreams, and felt his heart throb in tender astonishment. She would never cease to amaze him, would she?

And it was suddenly so very easy to embrace her back, not just hold her but hug her, his sudden gush of feelings making any stiffness of shock leave his body. Bog bent easily, his arms circling her, and let himself sink into the embrace and all the emotions it gave forth. This…

This, more than any blue sky, more than any tender furl of new leaves, more than even those wretched primroses, proved that Winter was utterly banished, that all cold loneliness had fled. Spring had come, and Bog felt a warmth spread through his chest like new roots as he held Marianne in his arms.

_She’s back_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two years. It’s been two years since I updated this story. I can’t believe it. 
> 
> Well, I *can* believe it, but good God, I wish it hadn’t been so long - you can blame it on starting then pulling out of Grad School, grandparents on both sides of my family falling seriously ill, losing not one but two jobs, dealing with/caring for the mental illnesses of both family and friends, and then as a grand finale, my own dealings with the ever delightful demon known as depression. It’s been a hell of a ride, with emphasis on “hell”. There were times where I was positive I would never be able to write again, let alone return to this story…
> 
> …but, slow as it has been, slow as it is doubtlessly going to be in the future, I wrote it. Word after word became sentence after sentence, then page after page…and now here we are. 
> 
> I just want to say I would have never been able to do it without the support and love and care and wisdom that you have provided. And I mean ALL of you. I know that in the grand scheme of things, updating a fanfic doesn’t mean that much, but…this story is incredibly dear to me. The thought of finishing it is what keeps me going though some very dark times. So please know that I am so desperately thankful to those of you who bore the waiting with patience and offered me support and kindness and love during the hellish periods I’ve gone through these last two years. As I have always and will always say, the Strange Magic fandom is the BEST fandom. I love you deeply and dearly, darlings.


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